Beholding Salad

Image by RonAlmog via Flickr

It is called, real.

They wish to forget, to be detached.

They wish to hide from life’s cleaver in the sanctuary of still space.

I shall read them, and ease them into their place.

They will obtain their loss, I assure.

…

For it is blissful and overwhelms my mind.

A hunger wraps around my stupor, and holds me still.

What shines in their eyes is not thrill.

It is a rancid glaze.

…

Their mangled form is badly shaped,

Yet how can such a taste feel so sweet.

Like seen in shade when one swells with heat.

To become drenched, arid, and stale.

…

Without them I would succeed.

For it is their nutrients that fill my sight.

To keep them calm is my only rite.

And I do so as I please.

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