Tea

A sleep walking cadaver
Wakes up every night
with a craving for tea,
Not because he misses it
But 'coz he cant drink coffee.
So with parched throat
And thirsty lips,
Went out the cemetery
in the nearby town,
to fetch himself a cup,
combing pots and kettles
and coffee shops
only to find no teabags in china
to soothe the drought.

Dejected and unsated;
He drags himself back,
To a cold gravestone
no one wept,
his decaying fingers grope
a hidden cache
instead of a tea party,
to smoke tea from a Jamaican mug.



Poetry by irene
Read 707 times
Written on 2009-01-25 at 15:42

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I would of liked to see the picture of this creation. Weird as it is, I find it captivating and delightful.
2009-01-26