the tea leaves arenít divine, but sheís scrying me anyway

She begs me for the tea leaves at the bottom of my cup
like I can offer some kind of divinity
like Iím not just as lost as she is
Öin a different way

The Ouroboros eats its tail
the circle remain unbroken
like beat generation philosophy fifty years in the future
weíre still going around in circles

My brain is a maze of telephone wires
Iím covered in copper Ė greening in the sun
like the cheap and broken promise ring
she rubs absently against her skin

If green is the colour of the heart
then mine is murky with disuse and decay

There is no beauty in my hollow words
but maybe words arenít needed
maybe the silence that spans the space between us
is enough
the muted music of the radio a lullaby
neither of us can hear but somehow feel
through the ocean of unspoken thoughts

She begs me for the tea leaves at the bottom of my cup
like Iím capable of some kind of divinity
like Iím not lost in just the same way she is
albeit more silently

© Indie Adams 2015
Written by Indie (Miss Indie)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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