The honey that melts in the mid-summer heat,
and the nectar imported through the cold.
She is the crown that rests atop of her shoulders,
like the curved cuts of her silken trousers,
with the pearls that embellish her cotton shirt.
the boil on the remnants of Darjeeling
whilst fastening her trench like coat.
The gold welded through her ancestry,
overseas but grounded.
She is the tea that is brewed twice over.
– A post-colonial memoir
Read more of my prose @auburnrhyme
As always, feedback would be greatly appreciated.