my cup of tea has
a tiny purple flower
painted delicate on china.
the worn out golden rim
glows graceful in the sunset,
rippling in the wind.
my elbows feel cold on the
rusted steel railing,
the faded green paint peeling off;
my fingers feel warm.
the salty blue taste of
the ocean before me
spreads into forever,
singing her melancholy
song of wind like a chant
long forgotten, but never lost.
the clouds in my teacup,
they dream about you, my dear storm.

T. E. Pyrus


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