My belly is empty
It rumbles with a rending upset
Trembling towards a grasp
At crumbs left.
What is the bread that satisfies the aching space?
What taste?
What crunch of crust
And soft warm innards
Fluffy, buttery
But not enough?
My trust of bakers and belaboring makers
Has been cast in rust
Spilled upon the floor, in acres
And left to mold in claw marked holes
Turning to a sickly scene
Green with grease and gristle
And speaking of it,
Reeking of the pit it stole to
Keeping just a tidbit
To commit a suffered style
While the sunshine breaks between the clouds
And the toll still mounts
And the rains come back to drown us
Break us down
And feed us lies on lies
Like buzzing insects
Did I try to speak it loud?
What was my predicament?
What was maddeningly had
Graduating from the class of scoundrels
To the hounds and mounds mongrel bones?
Do I atone?
Why should I decry what was never mine to hold?
Forgetting all my minded systems and insistent typing, did I know?
Back then
When life was free of writhing.
What, exactly, am I missing?
I don't know.
I search, and search, until my frantic failure to explain
Demands a payment that my blood can't make.
I'll never be the same.
Breaking bread
Upon a table cloth of moth-eaten, beaten
Weaving thoughts
A supper that my solemn tryst with trust
Has bought.
A meal made of hunger
Where a bite is just a chance
To find starvation by its side.
How can get off
Depart
This diabolic ride?
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