Molten Poetry

Let it burn.

Full of complaints,
the Lord chipped away
at the biscuit he
quickly dipped
in his tea.

“Why me?”

I couldn’t say,
but each time we met
this way, it seemed
The Creator expected
an answer from me.

“I’m so tired, you see,”

was the oft-repeated
message from he.

It wouldn’t be long
before he raged
at the leaves,
telling fortunes
in the dregs of his
Darjeeling.

“I’m done with my tea!”

Predictably, he screamed.

The Destroyer was here…
and woe was me,
because it was my duty,
as a mortal man,
to clean up the
broken dishes

from a God’s high tea.


©️ 2018.

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