Hey Webmasters!Get a free website withholiday themes -Get it NOW!
TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT
Seldom fond of tempests in teapots, was I
And you least of all you—you petty whistler
I rammed you onto the back shelf, the dusty one
(Appropriately I thought) and grumbled at what ironic fate had left you there
Spitting out angry prayer that I would one day be free
From your incessancy
A force of perpetual motion, were you
Whirling and chattering, my silence refusing to play melody for your tune
And I, caught at the border of resignation and glowering insanity,
Loathed you and your pink-patterned prison
And realized to my infinite frustration, that you were one noisy pot
I could never take off the stove
But still unprepared, was I
When you stormed out from your vessel to mingle with the thunder
Sewing your high-pitched flute among the drum of clouds
And leaving me, with china-stained hands,
Uncertain, and sorrowful that I had missed the symphony
Of our final concordance
How oddly beautiful, were you
Winging away in that lightning-lit sky, naked as the breeze
Which I considered good riddance, and vaguely surprising
That it left me teetering as though on stilts—madness-inducing as always, I suppose
And I wandered back inside to construct your memorial, homage to the day
The harmony section died
Hey Webmasters! Get a free website with holiday themes - Get it NOW!
bravenet.com