The Cup Of Tea

Watching sunrise from my terrace top, I slowly sip tea from a cup. All in vain efforts to shake off the last clinging residues from last night’s dream (and all the other nights too). Like spurting Bodhi trees on dilapidated constructions- it stood and grew. It is growing, still.

Sips of the hot liquid char my careless mouth and the scarlet sky burns my heart. I’m reminded of the times spent. I try bringing those vanilla memories closer to myself. They are but, just a handful. A fable of a melancholic past hummed monotonously in the throbbing of my flaccid heart. I swirl the seemingly comforting liquid inside my mouth for a few seconds until it becomes unbearable. I gulp it down quick.

Little sips yet again, they pinched a hibernating self-loathing side awake. Blasphemous ordeals of love and ignorance, which I thought were left far behind, caught up quick, and this time taller and stronger. Like a creeper twirling around a support to stay, or a coin in the wishing well astray – I held faith strong and gulped the remaining last few sips (now cold) from the cup. The sun is yet to grow warm and sky still a faded blue. It is time enough to contemplate the strange resemblance of the game- the cup and the tea, our lives, you and me.

The cup of tea is over, and so I guess are we too, love.

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Clouds, stars, lousy humans and romantic bugs, mushrooms and starfish are what I write about. These verses are fantastical dreams and twisted realities. A rich broth of many secrets, some as is and some tempered with. Be cautious before tasting.
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Mayank Bisht

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