We may twist the hand of fate,
And chew off the arm that feeds you.
Perhaps I, now here seated.
In all my ill, am not a worthy host.
Were I but still a resemblance O'a man...
Then perhaps your beaker may be filled.
With that which you covet so.
Alas there is naught but smoke.
The day eclipsed in sight.
We all but blind to see.
The feast before your feet it lay.
Indulge yourself upon the floor.
Where you may rummage...
In my guts.
ReplyDeleteIt is not your guts I seek,
but the very core of your soul,
leave the body to the ones who
ravage,
let them take what they will
only leave for me
your heart,
whereas I can decipher
through your needs.
For I have come from from what is rightfully mine,
for what was promised long ago...
I have no need to covet,
what Destiny has foretold.
😉
You utter such wretched words
ReplyDeleteAs though I would turn from such decadence
I would gladly forfeit my place at your table
Fall to my knees ere such an enthralling appetizer
I have no interest in rummaging through
You forget that I want it all
Not most, not some
At most, I'd prefer none
O .. but I shouldn't be so greedy ..
Alas, dinner must be cold
Your guests appear subdued
Spare me the hellish facade
I was never one to elude.