The fumes of the hot tea cup, blurs my mother’s face,

Before I leave, this may be my last sip,

As her tears roll down and she smiles,

For nostalgia holds a grip on me, I shall miss, her sweet little kiss,

My mother’s prayers and my fathers dream’s I take  with me as I leave,

Skies are beautiful here, the place where I dwell of crimson and red, as the sun sets,

I shall miss the skies, of mother’s hand, the pancakes and the fries,

It happens, I shall miss my desk and my bed, the place I slept, at hard times I wept,

Strange a lifeless speck of a thing, of no emotional connect, sometimes tears it can bring,

The fumes of the hot tea cup, blurs my mother’s face,

As her tears roll down, for no matter how aged you are, she shall worry and she shall care,

Before I go, this may be my last sip,

Clandestine emotions getting high, in the somber as my heart speaks a million words,

Of weaved dreams to full fill, hopes to come true and promises to keep,

Taking this last sip, I have miles to go,

Before I age down, and grow slow.