at a crossroads, where the roads diverge into a yellow wood
I, a man, flip a coin indecisively
the heads and the tails both show in His hand
which Tea he will make rests in this
Borges exists metaphysically beside
He looks to the heavens, down at the earth, does not decide
I wait for Him, He waits for himself, too often is He here
to His Cave he retreats, uncomfortable and dear
He angers me, evokes sound and fury from my soul
spouts Ego and Id, Didi and Gogo, Left side Right side
yells deranged "am I Hamlet! such a waffling prince was he"
yet his madness lives inside us all, or maybe not...
He finds his restless sleep, now there is only me
but how can a man find peace this way?
He's left, alone, without making life's Tea
Black or Green, the choice itself matters not to me
without Him clear water I'll make
but the taste won't curb the savage crave
and the steam won't mend the mind depraved
another failure, another day
No! I say, I'll wake him. I will!
I'll find him and shake him and move him until
I find nothing can move the wavy still
the Tea's not steeped, nor cup filled
I pray next time the Tea's to be made
maybe, just maybe Gautama or Christ will be here
fill my cup with bittersweet nightshade
then after this, no more Tea making I fear