Tonight we will be dining on broken clouds.
Nothing will touch the edges of hunger.
And sunshine will carry us on to the morning,
Giving us a glimpse of the loneliness of love.
Where are we now? My eyes, fuelled by pain
Are now waxworks in a museum.
And my face, that burned along to the moonlight
Can now only turn to the other direction.
A dining table stands centre, and
In the briefest of moments, it is littered
With fruit for a feast. Until the drink-stained
Surface returns and reminds us that this is
A road less travelled.
A cordoned-off mist waits, while around it
A gathering takes place to the slaughter.
How do we know that we are not the feast,
And the clouds that we dine on are not us?