At the dinner,
of silent bitterness.
You are the disease,
on my plate.
Heated meatballs,
float in gelatinous gravy.
Your flesh a gift,
on my table.
Giving thanks to,
these misgivings collected.
The poisons: filter on life’s plate.
My listless palate emaciates me.
Your moistened flesh,
is my sickness.
No scars shall form,
on the meal that is you.
Podcast: Play in new window | Download