Dear (the) John

Sitting in the chamber of rest.

I return to see you, again and again.

Our bond stronger than a chamber-pot of tea,

growing ever bitter at our parting.

This pain inside of me shooting out,

into your loving porcelain embrace.

The cyclone inside your bowl flushes out all of my fears,

leaving behind only peace, tranquility,

and a mind freed of doubt.

A knock on the door,

our time runs short.

No tears now,

I know we'll meet again,

my beloved friend.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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