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.


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