Life...
right now it's bleak.
I watch the thin wisps of steam
dance above my cup of tea,
desperately trying to hold their gaze
as they dissipate.
People...
are just wisps of steam.
Ascending gracefully, full of energy and heat,
all the while fading into inexistence.
Death...
Right now it's promising.
The whispered words and hidden treasures,
seducing the tired and downtrodden
with its allure of slumber.
Maybe...
Maybe steam isn't meant to last.
Maybe it only dances out of glee
due to the knowledge that it is finally
going from it's tepid existence
in a black vat of tea
to something unknown.
Something greater?
YOU ARE READING
Herban Poetry
PoetryA small but ever-growing collection of original poetry from the mind of a 19 year old pothead. This is home to a large range of thoughts, feelings, and ideas that cloud my head in poetry form.
