Tea - Poem by Phil Soar
I constantly remind myself it means so little,
The random thoughts that pop into my head,
Like boiling water in somebody's kettle,
It all means nothing when you end up dead.
Like scolding water, poured on leaves encaptured,
In bags with holes, but small enough to hold,
The fragrance seeps into the cup of plenty,
But tastes like shit, when water has gone cold.
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