Cracked Bowl

Cracked bowl
Black soup
Pudding for the meagre,
I loathe my tentacles
Rant at mirrorless reflections
Of flailing arms and knob-less knees,
I drink too much
Of love’s secret potions
Sweat from the sweet smell
Of defeat,
I loathe my tentacles
At the bottom of a sea-less sea
Squirting black bile
A fountain of lost hope
With only a cracked bowl
For dessert