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Feasting

A poem

Reece Beckett
Rainbow Salad

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Image by CHUTTERSNAP, via Unsplash

A grand feast, again,
with worms on every plate,
they stuff their faces
no hesitation.

I’m just a piece of a machine,
but the fuel and oil makes me nauseous,
each bite sitting in the stomach
like slowly cracking panes of glass.

The textures overwhelming,
opting for the same choices,
again and again, and again and again,
hoping for a change somewhere
but doing nothing to inspire it.

Alienated beyond belief,
such a small thing to all others,
paints a vivid portrait of pain
and leaves its paint dripping out in 3D
growing into a fluid grabbing hand
tightly clasped
around the throat,
its mark left and hard to wash
away.

I sit down
before my plate of worms
my hands shiver slightly,

throat blockaded, stomach nauseous,
and starve one day more,
and one day more,

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