Wednesday, May 7, 2014


Tell-tale stories make their way 
out of the parleys stained with 
coffee and conversation. 
A relationship tugs its way
accross the wooden silence 
spread between the two.
The knife yells to the fork 
I will hold this side of the bread
And the China with its billion noises 
adds to the conversing clatter. 
The dead chicken whispers a wish
to meet its waving ancestors
waiting beyond the alimentary canal. 
And the table turns into a boquet of tissues
Crumpled and forgotten without any issues.

Later, the chairs lay diverged
away from this tabular prison. 
And the inmates escape this sentence.

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