Tea and Ash

A half-remembered dream,
Fitfully had,
Plaque on the mind,
Scrubbed off in the
Sunshine and the rain
That alternates relentlessly
In this New England atmosphere
So far away
From where my heart was burned
In a conflagration
Of my own making,
Because no one breaks your heart
Except yourself,
And I would rather
Ashes
Than
Pieces,
I’d rather
Cinder, unmendable,
Than
Kintsukuroi, golden-veined.

Because steeping tea would only serve myself and custom says that is offensive,
Because the gray is more suitable to this sky, that delivers its promise of cold though it ought be warmer,
Because simmering Ceylon and bergamot was boiled off,
Because in the flames the embers burned and set my heart aflame as when it was filled with love.

In waking,
Ashen brew imbibed,
Dark coffee ground-like sludge,
Serpentine on serotonin cocktail chemically inflated,
Passion of past parts from perilous to paltry,
From fanned fuel to flatly,
Smashed ceramic in a hearth,
Replacing melancholy and mirth
With a
Flat
Affectation
That makes mincemeat of memory,
Scatters thoughts,
Dips arsenic in veins
Pumped through sooty shadow of a muscle better burned than broken anyway.

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