i made tea
the color of a warm winter sunset
the oranges and yellows
layered in perfect harmony
as all teas do
it stains
and burns
and heals
it is permanent.
the ink's dripping
on my paper
like sunrays from the sky
it burns the ice
not breaks it
and yet it heals
'cause after pain comes pleasure
and after that the reoccurring pain
but until then,
maybe we'll learn that tea's just colored and heated rain
YOU ARE READING
sort of sorted chaos
Poetrywhen i was not sad, some thoughts made sense. probably only to me but they did eventually
