a cup of tea i brew,
its leaves glistening, steaming up with dew,
while its smoke hithers through and true,
the morning a greyish, barely light blue.
at this table sits just me and my friends,
though i haven’t got any, and i don’t believe that shall mend,
for it is my youth and heart to them i lend,
yet when the storms are tough and the winds are rough,
’tis i, i who meets a bitter end.
so i continue—after all, who am i if i do not continue to my lee?—
and continue, and continue, ’til i stumble upon a key
that shalt be crafted by none other than Thee,
for it is with Thine presence that i will learn to reclaim Me.
But until then, patiently abide and coexist shall I with time,
longing for when I shalt be freed, freed from their lies.
