When she rose from torpidity
And stretched her arms to an earl gray sky
She had discovered that the world was tea
And she was just one of many spoons:
Fifty people could complete her work just as well.
Still, in defiance, she stirred the lives of those around her
Never considering her simplicity and replaceability
The visible horizon a yellow tea boundary
That she could never taste
But would often dream about visiting
While others told her it was impossible
Because the sky's edge didn't exist
Only tea.
And when she one day fell to the ills
To the steeping world around her
Nobody noticed
Their flat metal heads reflecting all
But seeing nothing.
And the girl who had been born a spoon
Died an old tea cup -
Continuously cracked round the edges, only to one day
Break not by the limits of age
But by the insistence of humans.
"The horizon is a mirage."
She settled in her place as a useless spoon among many without her dream
The world having nothing to separate the likes of iced tea and white
The horizon sank to pure black tea
And because it didn't exist to her
Sylvia never noticed.
AN) What happens when you read the Wikipedia article on tea and you feel like BSing a poem? You start to actually get into your work and panic that you've gotten rusty, that's what.
I miss it when I could write poems and feel like an arrogant albeit genius arse.