10-25-2019, 08:50 AM
CHRISTMAS DINNER (EDIT 1)
Disintegration happened rapidly,
As it impacted the concrete floor:
porcelain cracked, exposing dull clay.
Leftover turkey stopped making sense,
when the plate lost its primary purpose.
It was dirt with no history of dinner.
Broken pieces scattered in turmoil,
rough edges with no particular shape.
were now warnings of a weapon,
each sharpened to carve.
Inaction can slice someone’s feet.
CHRISTMAS DINNER (ORIGINAL)
You need focus to walk upright carrying a plate.
Its disintegration happened rapidly, at the point of impact:
porcelain cracked, underneath just dull clay.
Leftover turkey and gravy stopped making sense
when the plate lost its prime purpose.
They were dirt with no history of dinner.
Rough edges of its broken pieces tasted metallic,
Their coarseness tried to hook my tongue.
It was a warning of a weapon,
now sharpened to carve.
Even inaction could slice someone’s feet.
Best glue could not hide the point of break.
Every time the cupboard opens,
judgmental hands will shuffle around,
naturally select the best of its kind,
moving mine to the bottom of the pile.
Each pudding was soaked in custard.
I watched their mouths open enthusiastically,
When emptying what was on their plates.
I could not bear the white gooey substance.
Committing a crime against dinner
is a punishable offence:
In the spirit of Christmas, they all laughed.
Disintegration happened rapidly,
As it impacted the concrete floor:
porcelain cracked, exposing dull clay.
Leftover turkey stopped making sense,
when the plate lost its primary purpose.
It was dirt with no history of dinner.
Broken pieces scattered in turmoil,
rough edges with no particular shape.
were now warnings of a weapon,
each sharpened to carve.
Inaction can slice someone’s feet.
CHRISTMAS DINNER (ORIGINAL)
You need focus to walk upright carrying a plate.
Its disintegration happened rapidly, at the point of impact:
porcelain cracked, underneath just dull clay.
Leftover turkey and gravy stopped making sense
when the plate lost its prime purpose.
They were dirt with no history of dinner.
Rough edges of its broken pieces tasted metallic,
Their coarseness tried to hook my tongue.
It was a warning of a weapon,
now sharpened to carve.
Even inaction could slice someone’s feet.
Best glue could not hide the point of break.
Every time the cupboard opens,
judgmental hands will shuffle around,
naturally select the best of its kind,
moving mine to the bottom of the pile.
Each pudding was soaked in custard.
I watched their mouths open enthusiastically,
When emptying what was on their plates.
I could not bear the white gooey substance.
Committing a crime against dinner
is a punishable offence:
In the spirit of Christmas, they all laughed.