He was like Oolong tea
colorless, subtle and
slightly bitter. Yet soft
like flowers in spring. Didn't
keep you up all night; consistent
whether warm or cool. Leaving
a most peculiar aftertaste. Refreshing
to my tongue that knew nothing but strong, colorful,
and addictive, black tea. His tastes were old and
traditional, a bittersweet dream in a chaotic world.
His love too organic for these tastebuds that didn't know
how to appreciate ----the good.
YOU ARE READING
Strands of Time
PoetryA collection of feelings, hurts, experiences and lessons learnt, felt and lived. A road woven in time for 9 years and continuing. Information for Readers: You'll notice in the titles, the poems run from "Class 7 to Class 15", I started writing from...
