YEAR 2025 Poem: Ceramic Silence, by Akayesha Singh

The cold cup of tea sat lifeless on the table in front of me.
I touched it, and felt the cold ceramic meeting my warm hands—
the silent dismissal of drinking it echoing through it—bland.

The tea film floated silently atop the liquid,
the tea leaves quietly settling down at the bottom.
The once warm and soothing embrace of the beverage,
now cold and biting.

I lifted the cup of the black liquid,
once that felt calm—
now sad and livid.
I brought the rim close to my lips, meeting the icy drink.

I took a sip, the dead and cold feeling sloshing through my mouth.
I set the cup down again—
a soft thud, almost uncaring,
ringing a sense of doubt.

It was rather a second face of the coin:
a drink so warm and comforting
never could have been imagined
this dead and unfeeling.

I stared down at the cup of dead ashes before my eyes,
almost like I thought I saw
the turmoil of emotions—
a storm raging inside the cup of tea.