Destruction, and the ability of the world to continue.

It is morning, around ten.
My pot of tea
Sits unassumingly next to my cup
and saucer.

A sugar cube rests
on my saucer,
white,
sparkling like the sand
on a perfect beach.

I drop it into my cup.
It sits,
askew,
waiting.

Lifting my pot of tea
and tipping it
I release a maelstrom of heat
and wet
wiping the sugar cube away
leaving brown tea.
Sweet,
sweet brown tea.

The steam rises
from the brown tea,
and the news
comes on CBC.

To those who expect things from me

I'm too slow
I'm going fast as I can
But I'm too slow
Please try to understand
I'm going fast as I can
But I know that I'm too slow
And I'm speeding up
And it scares me