The Downfalls of Divination

by trogers5


Poetry


a potion
photo creds: pixabay

by Caitlin Bartley ’24

 

Reading tea leaves,

our silly tradition.

Two cups of steaming earl grey,

brewed bitter,

growing cold because of your omission.

 

I am frozen in time,

entranced by mugs of milky tea,

unaware that the café is closing,

trapped in a space

between fate and reality.

 

And although we were never proclaimed,

I can still see a future,

one that doesn’t end with my heart maimed,

held together by one

flimsy suture.

 

I have a thirst for prophecy,

my doubts must be relieved.

You’ll find me here waiting

like a fool,

eager to read your stupid tea leaves.