The cup of steaming hot tea I'm holding
Is a rustic charm,
With the handpainted design of an owl staring.
It once was the hollow of a teak wood -
Truncated horizontal,
Rims circular,
Interiors warm and inviting,
Thick green and cookie brown bark
Fragmenting on the outside in patches,
Home to an owl tucked in quietly,
Wise old brows raised in profuse thoughts
Bordering the signature stare
Pointed by a yellow iris chairing the black pupil,
Confirming the insaneness of the beholder
That dared to look at him in the eye,
Unleashed steely cuts - one, two, three,
And silently destroyed a humble abode.
A home will be built, guarded by a teak door,
A memory will be grafted on a casual teacup.
But now, for the wise old avian before flee,
A strange sense of calm passes by his stare,
To stare at the stranger pass by calmly to his doom,
Softly hoots and withdraws to the dark.
