My heart has become a Tea Room.
From the cup
the trails of steam
wander up those winding, vapored paths.
I sip the silhouette of them
no longer craving the taste of straight lines;
because I know now
that life is never like that.
I am waiting for a knock at the door.
My heart used to be a citadel.
All manner of things broke and bled themselves
against the limestone and palisade,
trying to get in.
The oil of my tears
used to light its hallways.
Until the day that I felt the worthlessness
of the fever of safety.
Until I heard the silence
of the crooked promise that it made me.
Until I smelled the cruelty
of the spice of separation.
Until I saw the ailing reach
of my own future,
sick with the lack of life.
Those who do not open doors
more than the quality of life.
But have not yet tasted
where that choice will lead them.
The dream of safety
will suck the sleeper of his breath.
In seeing that,
the curse I laid upon myself
And from that day forth,
my heart has been a tea room.
Each visitor has been a gift sent to me.
And whenever I hear a knock at the door,
I invite the knocker in for tea.
Each joy and each sadness.
Each love and each fear.
Each angel and each demon.
I meet them at the door laughing.
I take a sip to acknowledge them.
I welcome and learn from them all.
For I have made of my heart,
a tea room.