"Crying causes burns"
said the mitten to the glove
"But it makes a lovely tea"
"Only in the copper kettle"
stated firmly stated by the glove
"Mixed well with a tad of clove"
Make your tears diluted"
"But it's better weak!"
Exclaimed the mitten
"Too much salt spoils our candy"
"Stand here by the kettle"
The glove called to me
"Tests of will, grace and
multiplication fill our desires"
They told me that same day
With a sneer and a sniff
"Tally marks on your arm
"Bring your book and owl as well"
"Now tell us if you trouble"
They cooed across the table
"Have you been wicked today?"
"Have you hated,
Or glared or pierced
a heart or mind?"
"Tell us your shame"
"confide"
"Bleed your eyes of all evil"
As I did, and wept
From it. The scent of
Cloves exuded from their breath
I felt my eyes drained
Both of them asleep
I stole the kettle
Contained within was
My power to accept
They had been using it as a steeper