By the Spread of the Table

I attended a creative writing workshop this past Wednesday, and this poem came over me after staring at a rather morbid picture prompt:


By the spread of the table

And the thorn on my chair

The clawing of conscience

I do not dare

Partake of this grisly feast,

This ghoulish delight;

To say that I’m willing

‘Twould fill me with fright.

Man is not useless;

Man is not wrong;

The part of my soul

That objects is long gone.

The thoughts that knock once.

The fear that rings twice.

I break way the ties

That bid me do right.

To jump, to leap off this spread:

Hope’s in my breast

And it’s long since been dead.

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