I gulp tea like some do religion.

Each swallow

is a prayer down my throat that warms

more then blood.

My morning mass:

the smell of sifted caffeine

Mixed with broken bits of Africa, England, and japan.

If I dare to close my eyes,

Even for a sip?

I am gone in to some sort of

Holy calm,

The sand ribbed mug griped between fingers as my bible.

I often just sit,

sun tinting my tea,

And watch steam rise in prophesies

No one can read.

Till sip by sip

My mass drains away.

I can loose my thoughts then;

Let them spill offerings all over my cup-the alter

And only when I poor the last strains of

choir music into my mouth

Must I take up the burden of life and emotions

Once more.

A/N: this was a bit more cheesey that my usual poetry but i guess thats allright some times.