Saturday, July 22, 2006
the shine and lustre of those plates,
steely and cold and with kisses of ice.
from which he gets his daily fill
of hope and fear and that could entice.
was gradually fading itself away,
much like a sickly child uncured.
and all that was left behind these doors
was all the affliction and torment that was endured.
the plates all fall from the kitchen sink,
that place that was so sacrosanct.
where fluids of life would wash away
bitterness and troubles, file and rank.
the sink itself turned to clay,
frozen and barren it had become.
just more and more unmovable,
to nothing else would it succumb.
the metal dishes slammed into
the greasy, deathly concrete floor.
it had morphed into something so fragile,
yet like a stone it moved no more.
the chef just could not bear to see
the potential destruction that could be.
with one finger he prodded his subjects,
ashes to ashes and some last respects.
