Intellect is empty without intent.
The tea is black and hot; poured lugrubious from the hand.
The hand that shakes and strokes the patient, who smiles, yet knows that it is time.
No more worrying about the paper bills, scattered on the dining table.
Or the kitchen floor that is stained with yesterday’s tea.
Poured with affection from the teapot. Cozy and warm.
The officials look in and see nothing. Intellect is empty without intent.