I watch the teabag sink like a buoy lost at sea,
And play with my soggy branflakes,
As the news remains the same;
Raindrops tap with elegance
On my windowsill,
As blue skies turn to dust,
I fetch my doomsday book,
And prepare for my fate.
I get lost under cries of the gods,
With which I pull my hood for shelter.
My advisor asks me of any changes
I swiftly reply with a nod.
I exit with this thought:
If I continue to persevere
These visits will soon disappear.