A porcelain cup,
Slender-handled,
Filled to the brim,
It boils,
Curling wafts of fragrance,
Emerge,
Teetering on the edge,
Of a turquoise tray,
Yet, the maid walks faster,
Her slippers slap against,
Her scorched heels,
Her veil flutters,
Her ankles tinkle,
Panicking guards quivering,
Yet, the dauntless maid,
Strides on,
For she holds the Queen’s evening tea,
The mingled fragrance,
Of cardamom and ginger,
She relishes the alcoholic scent,
Halts before the Queen’s chamber,
Knocking,
The guard’s make way,
As the maid lowers her eyes,
The Queen breathes in,
The fragrance of her tea,
And smiles,
For the saucer is decked,
In creamy rose petals,
The ethereal shades,
Bedazzle her,
She thinks of her rose garden,
Swaying flowers,
As the dew gushes down,
Beautiful roses,
So fragile and brittle,
Yet their thorns,
So petrifying,
She sips,
As ecstasy gurgles through her,
Ripples of joy,
Rush up her spine,
Yet,
Her eyes bulge in horror,
As she spits out-
Her short lived ecstasy,
For even though her saucer,
Is decked in tear shaped petals,
Of creamy color,
There is a thorn,
Bobbing up and down,
In her steaming tea,
Yet, the maid pats her back,
Coaxes her, and tells her,
There is no thorn
In her tea!
An illusion of roses,
Gliding around her,
Has led her to believe-
That there was a thorn,
A treacherous thorn,
Twinkling in her tea