Cup of Midnight

There's a bitter black tea 

At my favorite cafe,

Wormwood black, like a poisonous 

Dark chocolate,

That I like to guzzle on a

Wet, windy day;

So perfectly perverse, so warm and

Tingley to my pallette.

When October turns cold and my

Temper turns brittle,

Solace seems as off as the

Sweetness of Spring.

Shedding the skin of a 

Wiltering flower,

The crow and the raven within me

Must sing.

Like showers of kisses, with hints of

Smoke and ripe cherries,

And passions pulling thick as wads

Of black licorice, 

I'll fall, diving down with you 

Into dust,

And die in the moment to make

Everything perfect.