Silent are the weeping willows
this time of year,
Bending to the weight of rainfall
or hooded ornaments.
Branches splintering off into
dissolutions of a holiday,
The party goes on, I’m sure
that’s what they’ll all say.
Though a chair is left empty at
the setting this year,
A carcass carved through by the
wings and gutted up
the belly of an indulgent beast.
They spread the greed like butter,
while I mull over wine.
A hollow setting masques a fair
A soiled bride and a groom whom
finds solace in the mirror.
Debauchery can eventually become
you glance off into the void and allow
its whispers to warp reality.
But awareness has always shaken my
shoulders or spat in my face.
I stare at a fire crackling in the depths
of an hour too dark,
Swiping the phlegm and postulated
insincerity from my face.
And I know that I may be alone, but I
am less lonely than I am
At the table of forlorn regrets, death