Beneath the roots of the willow tree, where shadows dance and spirits flee,
the teapot laid in silent rest, Its spout still warm, its heart possessed.
Inside, the dregs of time congealed—a whisper from the unrevealed,
black leaves like ink on porcelain, spilled secrets from a dying reign.
Once, it poured for kings in lace, now gathers dust in this forsaken place,
yet when the moon is thin and slight, ghosts return to sip the night.
Drink deep, they say, though none remain, the teapot keeps their old refrain,
a hollow song the wind will carry, over the graves where no one tarries.
And should you pass that willow’s bend, listen close—you’ll hear them blend,
the clink of cup on saucer’s chime, a taste of time, steeped in rhyme.
So listen close—you’ll hear it too— the slow, soft drip of shadows brewing,
beneath the roots of the willow tree, with the last drop of cyanide.
Powerfully penned, Adagio. Excellent write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, Damian.
This is a brilliant, haunting poem! Like always, the imagery and the cross references are ingenious. Excellent work, my friend!
Thank you, Elke.