A Meal in Honor of Someone Once Beautiful
My God. Preacher, pass the silence. Stop talking.
The whir of desperate voices cloud
thick air, fill our glasses to the brim, shocking
one empty chair before flowers, china & shroud.
Enough is enough.
For heaven’s sake. We squeeze as twisted thread.
Passing through the eye of sorrow’s needle
making our way to the far side of this dread
meal of death, bread & wine. Bent fetal.
Enough is too much.
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