Tasseography

We wait patiently, brewing an infusion

Of clichéd fantasy,

Steaming with unreasonable expectations.

As our dreams bubble up to the surface,

They boil over the white cusp of containment,

Breaking under the pressure,

And vanish within this stagnant air.

We mix emotions

And steep them for days

To form a body that is strong,

Yet as this clear image of ours diffuses into darkness,

We discover our creation is nothing but dust,

Weak, and diluted by truth.

But, still, we sip our poison,

Take it with cream,

And smile

While we quietly choke

On the bitter astringency of imagination.

Painfully, the last drops struggle

To slither down our throats,

And as we hit the bottom,

We see the withered bones of desire spread,

Thrusting a white clumsy dagger

Within their fragile whole.

It is then we realize that perhaps

We have strained ourselves too much,

For achieving the heavenly aroma,

And tasting the success

Sought after for generations

Is simply never found in the leaves.