A Teapot of Life

Strolling along paradise's streets,

I wander into an empty teashop: reality.

I sit in a humble corner and wave the waiter over.

Bring me this tea you call 'life', is it now your specialty?

Yes, it replies, a nervous twinkle in its eyes,

not many enjoy it, but I shall serve it as you wish.

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A few moments later, my teapot finally arrives.

Be careful good sir, the waiter bows, it is quite hot,

steep it quadruple with time's water, and each pot shall yield two cups.

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The waiter down out of sight and I take my first sips.

The first cup for the fiery summers,

For the chocolate ice creams and the concert drummers.

The second cup for the snowy winters,

For the snowball fights and the ski trail ice splinters.

The heavy taste of youthful joy,

Never could I have imagined that it would never come back once it had left.

The hot water of time waterfalls into the teapot,

Washing away some of the flavors that once were.

The first cup for the 6 AM mornings,

For waking up with five alarms' rings.

The second cup for the 4 AM nights,

For studying through midnight's light.

The bittersweet taste of high school days,

Thinking it was torture, when nothing later could bring me more joy.

One steep later, and the cup again kisses my mouth,

A little less flavor, but perhaps a little more taste.

The first cup for the small house in a university town,

For the 300 square foot room that could hold all my ups and downs.

The second cup for the young couple under the moon.

For the two blushing faces humming an underripe lovers' tune.

The first taste of freedom and romance,

Only to see the shackles of power and the knife of affection.

But time's water washes away the bruises and the scars,

Leaving what little flavor remained.

The first cup for a hundred cubicles in an endless room,

For the billion people behind desks, to be swept away by history's broom.

The second cup for a single cry in a hospital ward,

For the little speck of life, destined to be my life's new sword.

The bland tastelessness of adulthood,

Interrupted by an injection of flavor, sweet and bitter.

But even that is washed away, by the waters of time;

And finally the tea, little more than a pot of water, touches my lips once more.
The first cup for a lazy arm chair in the sun,

For the glittering green fields where the younglings run.

The second cup for a gray tombstone on the hill,

For the years we gave and yesteryear's thrill.

The bland tastelessness of life

Is finally washes away with the burning water of time.

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I finish my tea, and rise from my quiet corner.

I leave my payment and slip into the edge of night,

Never to return to this teashop: reality.

 

 

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