Bitter

A ceramic mug
Slowly fills
With bitter tea
From a black kettle’s spout.
One thousand sweet grains of sugar
Fall from the brim
Of a polished silver spoon.
A pile forms-
A mountain
Of all things good and holy
Amidst the brown murky depths
Of oblivion.
The island slowly dissolves
Bit by bit
From the shoreline to the peak.
Every molecule,
Every granule,
Every morsel, speck, and crumb
All dissipate.
And after all those thousand grains
Disperse themselves so well
To every corner of the mug,
Every sip of tea
Still tastes bitter.