Feast

August 28, 2010

Death beats inside,
Knocking on the door,
Waiting to be released.

Sadness is his only friend,
Sitting by the cold and ashen hearth,
That once contained my inner fire.

Together they drink a bitter liquid,
From a dark and twisted bottle,
The last that is left of my spirit.

And so they dine,
Drinking wine,
In the crumbling shack,
That is my mind.

The gloom is lit,
Shadows feebly pushed,
By a lantern called desire.

And the shack is held,
By nails and planks,
Bound purely by craftsman’s love.

The cold is barely kept,
By the failing flame,
That consumes my sanity.

And so they dine,
Drinking wine,
In the crumbling shack,
That is my mind.

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