Prophecy
She crushes the discolored leaves,
And drops them in the water, and stirs.
Over the fire, the water begins to heat,
And she stirs.
The bedimmed room is enveloped in its potency,
As she brings the boiling liquid to the table.
Poured into a cup, inhaled, drunk,
By the intoxicated patron.
The cup is snatched immediately,
And the pounding hearts disturb the lull.
She smirks at her unsuspecting patron.
Her eyes widen and water.
Dismayed, the patron walks out of the door,
To the sunny suffocating street.
He rushes, head-down, to his haven.
He rummages his pockets for the keys,
And finds them.
He hurries into the house, and strips.
He breathes, deeply.
He sees a decrepit man,
Crippled. Dependent. Addicted.
Could she be right?
He grips it in his hand,
And admires its beauty.
Before he had a chance,
Abrupt gunfire ends his tale.
She was right.
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