The discussion of politics occurs,
Over cups of lukewarm earl grey.
Obsidian tea occupies an ivory ***,
My hand stumbles and the sweet grains miss my drink.
They fall to the ground and scatter the rich soil below me,
Herbal notes are enough to distract me from my surroundings for the moment.
A thin shadow rests upon me,
Cast by the barren trees that forsake the living.
Clinking china rings in the air,
But is not enough to mask the sounds of suffocation.
I continue to pour my drink into my mouth,
As the rope around me neck beings to tighten.
This tea is too sweet I think to myself,
While my feet are lifted from the ground.
The cup drops from my hand,
and the cotton tablecloth is stained crimson.