Poetry and Tea

Until seven o'clock
I was building a home -
building a home in me.
now, finally, I am tired:
Poetry and tea.

Now it is more like a sunset,
the final stage of a tragedy.
I run to my shelter
but it cannot remember me.
On the floor falls perfection,
a collection of war and insanity.
A path dividing a cosmic sea:

Poetry and tea.