A cup of tea would be lovely, indeed,

Tea, not coffee, that’d been served a day ago,

At the crack of dawn, piled upon the incomplete, 

Upon hands slithering to the knife at their torso,

Ever so softly, whispering, “Don’t be so offbeat,

Finish us, complete us, your bundle of shame, 

Your ever-lasting list of things to accomplish,

Always wonder and ponder your flimsy claim, 

To the laurel wreath and all its garnish, 

Embalm, in your heart, the dreary course of the game,

Fueled, by a sin of inexhaustible lust, a craving for praise, 

The others’ bonfires alongside your dwindling flame, 

Will blind your eyes of judgment in their haze,

Fulfill me, the myriad of trips up Sisyphus’s peak,

Or gaze, as the embers wane to your demolish,”

Tea, not coffee, so hastily drunk a day ago,

To blacken out the murmurs that stung,

To bring with it, a fresh slew of vertigo,

Shriveling charcoal a heart so rosy and young, 

Tea, not cider, I’d already quaffed down a batch,

Praying the millions of bursts of air to whisk, 

The shards of melancholia to the void past the latch,

As they ruptured insistently, the manner so brisk,

But for naught, had it been, 

For the bubbles had scorched, 

Piercing the raw, blistered skin, 

Crimson droplets dripping and torched, 

A cup of tea would be lovely, indeed,

Brewed with a pinch of tender and care,

To the lulling tendrils of solace, I cede, 

The bundle of worries and whispers, in their despair.