Unable to speak plain, so here’s a clue.
The tea she serves me is a bitter brew.
Strained & mixed with such salty tears
yet I still drank it down for many years.
The cup it is in seems ancient, cracked,
my heavy heart hangs equally wracked.
Chipped, scarred, pictured porcelain peeling.
Some wounds can cut too deep for healing.
Her haggard voice demands “Drink some more!”
So I knock it back through throat so sore.
My stomach lies lined by its toxic taste.
Mixes with misery to form a putrid paste.
I sip, she stares straight into my eyes.
Won’t find true nature behind my lies.
Do I deceive to protect her or myself?
A bit of both – I still value my health.
Reluctantly repeat this dismal dance daily,
trapped together trying to finish her tea.
Sometimes left wondering why I even try.
If I do, she’ll pour more as time goes by.
I dip a broken biscuit, leave crumbs in my stories.
Point to present and add hopes for future glories.
A record repeats as she still stands stern above.
“Can anyone find me someone to love?”
Someday I may move mountains, go faraway from her reach,
drink spicy rum in the sun with a new love by the beach.
Copyright © 2016 Philip Craddock. All rights reserved.