Strange Diet

He speaks a crude language, one of rocks and paper
One of frangible ego, always needing some honey
To lick the wounds closed. And so I come here.
He cleared these woods; he built nothing in return.
I asked for something because I can't walk the emptiness.
This bench is a full stop, a fool's stop, perhaps.

I don't mention the wolf, closer every day.
I bring a book and read; ants crawl beside me,
Dust blows in the sunlight like curtains, billowing.
His mansion is emptiness.
The wolf runs the ragged edges until I come.
I read the book until he's close and then
I open the newspaper and read him blood.

It's a strange diet, this meat of human cruelty.
And yet, it satisfies him. I read myself empty
And walk home.

Sharing the above with The Sunday Muse and Poets and Storytellers United for their Sunday poetry rounds. I've been catching up on my notes this week and hoping that--at some future point--they will coalesce into something rich and strange. Or at least something with a beginning, middle, and end. I hope this week finds you well and your reading & writing ready to hand. :) 

-- chrissa