The Meal

Love and hate mix well with sugar,
Bitterness seasons the only found sustenance,
Baking in the empty house of haunting,
Choking on overdone broken promises.
Say the prayer before the meal is eaten,
“That’s not true, it will not always be this way.”
Then you can devour what words I say or write,
Relish in courses I can produce on a silver place.
After as we slouch, engorged you are with needs met,
Pride of the artist, I am glad you enjoyed your repast.
Heart arising, the tip must now be mine, it must be time,
Yet again alone, no matter the impression, I never dine.
Thomas Spychalski 

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