by John Dias
Water wavers in this ceramic cup.
This wishing well that was to be my home
Now holds the tinges of an ashtray.
Camellia escapes my tear ducts as I am removed,
And verdant vibrations run from my wet retinas.
I am the cinder in the air by the waning sun,
But I reside in reality next to a red steaming kettle.
When I am metaphors I have never hoped for,
I can only craft words for those dreams deferred,
But even as this day ends, my savour blooms,
And my blood fills your brimming cup.
I was born and exploited for your enjoyment.
You hold me in your calloused hands-
Steam rises from my throat to yours.
Remember that this world is beautiful
Beyond your understanding.
Feel my warmth and flavour
As I am consumed by you.