Living

The world is filled with hate, lust, love, darkness, and everything in between. These poems are based on anything, and everything.

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1. The Tin

The Tin Revision

Flat, yet curved,

It’s perception on life,

Lonely, and sadden,

Steam emanates from the bronze tin,

Hopping it could be useful.

 

The lady,

It’s loved for years,

Old, and aged, wearing finery,

Yes, she is ancient,

But beautiful,

Drinks it,

The chalice thinks,

“If only I could speak.”

It’s too old,

Bronzed pink,

Beaten and battered,

Printed like a golf ball,

It clatters back down,

It’s insides wobble.

 

The duchess hums softly,

Lost in her own thoughts.

Memories consuming her.

 

As she puts her,

Plump,

Wrinkling,

Red lips,

To the goblet.

 

The honey,

Leaves an after taste,

Sickly sweet,

Rolling off her tongue,

Enticing, and inviting.

 

The lady empties the vessel,

Fingers curled tightly,

On the small bumpy thing,

Leaving the smell of honey,

Stuck on it.

 

It’s bronze tin,

Darkened, yellowed,

As if painted on.

 

For it,

Is forever stained,

The countess holds it,

Giving her last,

And final breath,

She dies.

 

Her sculpted hand falls,

A slow everlasting,

Moment,

Letting the little tin…

    Fall.

 

It shatters.

 

It’s body skitters,

All over the floor,

A tear escapes,

Seeping through,

Foggy and sad,

The embodied fading thing,

Which can only see.

 

Finally letting go,

To it’s old rotting memories.

The last and final thought of the little tin, was,

“If only I wasn’t a Teacup.”

The Tin Revision

Flat, yet curved,

It’s perception on life,

Lonely, and sadden,

Steam emanates from the bronze tin,

Hopping it could be useful.

 

The lady,

It’s loved for years,

Old, and aged, wearing finery,

Yes, she is ancient,

But beautiful,

Drinks it,

The chalice thinks,

“If only I could speak.”

It’s too old,

Bronzed pink,

Beaten and battered,

Printed like a golf ball,

It clatters back down,

It’s insides wobble.

 

The duchess hums softly,

Lost in her own thoughts.

Memories consuming her.

 

As she puts her,

Plump,

Wrinkling,

Red lips,

To the goblet.

 

The honey,

Leaves an after taste,

Sickly sweet,

Rolling off her tongue,

Enticing, and inviting.

 

The lady empties the vessel,

Fingers curled tightly,

On the small bumpy thing,

Leaving the smell of honey,

Stuck on it.

 

It’s bronze tin,

Darkened, yellowed,

As if painted on.

 

For it,

Is forever stained,

The countess holds it,

Giving her last,

And final breath,

She dies.

 

Her sculpted hand falls,

A slow everlasting,

Moment,

Letting the little tin…

    Fall.

 

It shatters.

 

It’s body skitters,

All over the floor,

A tear escapes,

Seeping through,

Foggy and sad,

The embodied fading thing,

Which can only see.

 

Finally letting go,

To it’s old rotting memories.

The last and final thought of the little tin, was,

“If only I wasn’t a Teacup.”

 
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