Whisky Tea
What I wish to speak,
every endeavor would dilute
the essence like Plato’s forms.
Can a shadow imitate heat?
Lost in translation, best to keep
simple, lucid as a hand
stroking cheek.
But hands slightly tremble
in the slightest of moments,
shadows you can’t help but witness
in your vision’s corner,
however brief.
I crave to show what I can’t speak
in purest form, then collect
all potential meanings
as if each held the key
to all secrets beneath
every star that gleams.
If time’s an illusion, what of me?
Simple queries hold the key
to grand possibilities.
Everything’s trembling now..
We can only touch what seems.
He touches her, she touches he.
What is there but revelry
in unkempt distribution?
The patterns of art,
songs of new and old,
mock solutions and whisky
in a cup of tea.
But there in silence we see
the thing in itself.
Softly tugging your sleeve.
Kiss me harder,
and softer.
Hold me tighter,
and longer.
Dream.
Copyright © Erin Beckett | Year Posted 2023
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