grim feast

i dine on trampled hearts,
and sup on shredded souls.
i prepare them myself
in my private butchery,
(you may call it my kitchen
if you like).
innocently gleaned,
i gather them with words,
each carefully marinated
with broken promises,
seasoned with lies
and unfulfilled desires.
i cook them in my forge
of apathy,
its fires fed
by faggots of indifference.
i could always tell
when it’s well done –
delicious tendrils of memories
(so sweet they bring tears)
would waft and wrap around me
liek a reproach.
when i could bear no longer,
i fill my plate,
and taste the bitter dregs
of lost friendships.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s