What Tea Does Not Give Freely

This poem explores the insatiable side of desire through the voice of a greedy merchant who no longer seeks tea for comfort or pleasure, but for control, power, and hidden knowledge.

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I sell beauty

as though it were coin.

Jasmine —

not the simple bloom

trembling at dusk,

but petals coaxed

to surrender their secrets.

I do not sip.

I devour.

The steam curls like serpent-lace,

slithering in forbidden script

above gilded teapots.

It speaks, though only

to those who lean closer

than wisdom allows.

I listen.

I always listen.

Tea is not gentle.

It is alchemy.

It is the liquid hush

between power and pretence.

Honey drips —

not for sweetness,

but for lure.

Every drop gilds the tongue,

makes mouths soft with yearning.

They come to me,

hunters in silk and shadow,

seeking what they do not name.

I offer them cups,

but never comfort.

Only the bloom —

that fragile moment

where leaves unfurl

like old ghosts remembering.

What they taste

is not peace.

It is ache,

the deep need

to unspool the quiet riddles

hidden in every simmering leaf.

I hoard those riddles.

Lock them in lacquered boxes,

stacked high as sins.

I drink,

not for thirst,

but to swallow every whisper

the steam dares speak.

Each cup takes more.

Still, I want deeper.

I want the root,

the marrow of flavour,

the final truth of heat and hush.

There is no enough.

Jasmine fades.

Honey clots.

The bloom breaks.

But still,

I brew —

greedy,

vigilant,

listening

for the note no other merchant

has yet heard.