Tea

Tea

i made a cup of tea
and forgot about it

it was still warm
when i returned


Commentary
This poem, I feel, needs a commentary. So let me talk you through my process when writing this poem:

Imagine making a cup of tea. A simple thing. You build it up from nothing. You add the milk, the sugar, the tea and the water to your favourite mug; you make it your own. It's perfect for you and only you. No one else would get the same satisfaction as you would from that wonderful cup of tea.

And then you forget it.

You leave it by the kettle to answer the door to a salesman, to change the radio station because the Harlem Shake came on, to pop to the loo because the sound of the trickling water has made you want to go. Your tea stands there; it's useless. But it holds out for you.

And then you remember it.

You return to it and you hold the mug and you realise it is still warm.

It held out for you.
Sweet, loyal tea.

Sometimes, you find yourself being the tea. Sometimes, you want someone else to be the tea.
But sometimes, the tea goes cold.

Demons' Realm

Another original piece. It's not really based on anything in particular this time. I just looked out of my window one night and heard a howl of a wolf coming from the park guarded by the bare trees and the first stanza walked up and tapped me on the shoulder. The rest, as they say, is history.

               If everything you knew turned out to be a lie,

                                        would you believe the truth? 

Demons' Realm

 This is the land

where the queens are king:

where the skeleton trees have lost their leaves

and angels fear to tread.

The demons hunt in the demons’ realm.

The borders are never clear,

between hope and love

and hate and fear,

as a lonely boy fights away,

dreaming of a distant world.

A single star hangs in the sky:

burning through the night’s day

they claw, they scowl, they pray

and with one last look

and one last shout the

final light goes out.