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writer...performer...sometime pop-up cinema host.

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Friday, 5 May 2017

Suffering in Stillness and Clouds, a poem


 
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?

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