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

Sadness never starts at the soles
Of feet that have seen fells and shores
Crossed desert and pine-filled land
Sailed high above the clouds of Man

Sadness never starts with tintinnabulating ears
Nor in the hollow darkness filled with tears
From seeing all of Man’s creations slowly wither
Never to be seen anew in the silent realms of dither

Sadness never starts as a tightening knot
With the church bells knell, or Death’s first knock
On your door as solid as rock
Standing firm — until it is not

Sadness start in stillness
Delving deep into supporting roots
Impenetrable lies cover fading truths
Of lineage and like an invisible mesh for mosquitoes
Keep you out
Of life.

Hunger. The wrath of the void
Curled up inside a beacon of hope
For silence.

Sizzling Sirloin steak — medium to rare
I butcher my memories
In favour of voices telling me to move
When the heart only wants
A chair.

Sit.
Sit down. Never move.
Never move again.

The silence in the void
Of penury
After the penny dropped
Sköll yawned silently
Beneath a shrouded moon,
Driven by desire
To see another day, another way
To make the bacon last
And the hunger
— a thing of the past.