the fate of all the worlds is resting
here in my bright orange cup
a small litter of tea leaf destinies
waiting for the scribes and soothsayers of old
they are born of rags
and of richly ornate carvings
for now they speak in tongues
and in rhymes of riddled reason
pointing toward these maps so golden
born of starry-eyed designers
a ripple in the waves so transient
they crest and plummet boldy
like so many divers in the sky
and the coffee grounds
they are simply there for the reading
a novel penned in flecks of darkness
like the twisted tails of trailing vines
they roll and tumble
and scheme like secrets
tossed from lips
born in the scattering dust
they take of you
and in the telling
they awake in you the hours
that long to grow and bound
forming in your mind
like the gold in your teeth
and the silver in your hair
you are breathing just so now
atop the blistering mountain
as you rush to wake the others
the gentle souls that slumber
pondering streaks of sunshine
that run molten through the air
and like your moccasin feet found warming
they hide your clutching toes
bounding from your precipice
to the lonely world below
-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 4/12/13
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