It doesn’t have to rhyme to the world’s chime.

It just have to be in sync with your heart and mind. 

Walls still unpainted of what used to be

Resting her gaze she brewed her tea

A sip it spoke to the speaker of the heart’s content

While thoughts came by and blame took its rounds of dent and unvent

And time played its card and left it scarred at the poor girl’s heart

But maybe it could’ve been sealed if she answered the odds appeal

Like learning the probability of nine to one that tea was not written in The Divine’s will

Or the mechanism that tea was just a nemesis of a puffed definition for beautitude bliss

For it has been carelessly heaved for the certainty of please

Alas, she then sipped a last sip and last teased, “How about a talk over coffee miss?”

But maybe, she’ll still have her tea like how it all used to be,

As the acquainted taste is what the matters of her heart only speaks

Brewing it, she provoked; How can a sip of tea exquisitely take its kill by heat 

But, a wrath remains that coffee will forever foreordain than tea. 

A piece of paper attempts to understand the soul,

unsaid vehement of emotions pierced together into words,

timelessly read, disorientating all sight of sanity,

fitting it all in like an allotment of vanity,

an afresh magnitude brought in and nothing else mattered,

for these words hold the aptitude of what loved ones never bothered.