The shades are barely open
the sun is drifting through
showing dust on the panels
and floating about the room

Ashes litter carpet
the ashtrays overflowed
squished filters in scratched glass
toppled over like carcass bones

My teacup is chipped and cracked
Fine china at its best
I dunk the bag and let it steep
and put my hand down to rest-
carelessly on my knee
I watch the honey dissipate
and wish I was a bee
So I could float along the aroma
of a flower frenzied sea

And Edgar Allan Poe is coming back to me
Turning flowers into stones -
flavoring my tea

-SaintNHB