Spilled ink on a brittle page,
Tea streaks worn by age,
Turns and swirls create tears and happiness.
How could something so artificial,
Be so beneficial
For so many people?
A surge of giddiness,
A rush of odd fear,
Oh, how can it be so dear?
The lives of mystic people,
Have moved and spoken at the end of each sentence.
The crowd awaits with impatience.
And we'll sign them with joyfulness
Covering the overflowing cup.
~Author's Note~
I was reading through some of my old works and reading a book about an amateur poet (although, there's a lot more to it: Rose Under Fire by Elizabeth Wein) and I thought to myself 'Maybe I could try writing poetry?' So, this was one of my first tries doing it alone and not for a school assignment or such. Just trying something new.
