I steep in misery
the bitter brew secreted from my soul
diffusing into the cup
to linger at the bottom with the dregs and hopeless dreams.
It hangs on the back of my mouth
long after I swallow and grimace.
If I let the tea leaves lie long
after the steaming mug has gone tepid
will they mellow, losing their bite?
Can hopelessness and anxiety
be washed off with scalding water?
or will I only be damp and depressed,
borrowed British serenity fading away
as the tea cools in my stomach?
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