The Taste of Cold Dregs
(a whisper reaches your ear:
‘nobody likes the taste of cold dregs…’
and you attach no meaning to it)
you linger reposed beneath the sinking light
the soft yellow glow that rightfully
belongs
to yesterday
and your face reflects
in the thin sheet of glass
behind which you remain
separate
from everybody you’ve met
and everybody
you’ve yet to meet
your fingertips resonate with your
identity
your mind resonates with
nothing
(it seems you‘ve misplaced your identity)
emptiness
and a pretentious cup of tea
is all you’re living for
and you are defined only
by tea leaves and a herbal scent
upon your breath
(and you’ve never seen the future
in your tea leaves…
you’ve never even looked)
your imprints defile
a cracked cup
splattered with fading
flowers
and as the world passes by
you remain on your stool
(reflecting the soft yellow light)
sipping and sipping and sipping
your life away
In tiny portions
leaving only the fingerprints on your cup
and the cold, black dregs
(which taste bitter on your tongue)
to suggest
that you were ever there…
poem by Abby Koning
Added by Poetry Lover
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