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

value survival

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 

was lifted.  

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.