.

.

.

But the day you heard of her death,

you devoured like hunger devours a plate-

cramming down pies, international cuisines,

bit by bit, salt by salt and distinctly by spices.

The glass clinked with your infamous barbed ring,

the hand faltered in its job of holding still-

A little bit milk to lick deeds off your last plate,

With a quiet, enraged passion.

But no passion beats the last time

it drove you to execution.

How metallic does the rails smell, how flattering

the sweat must have been and how sarcastic her

screams must have sounded.

Your conscience has deceived you again.

Only a matter of time till silence reigns.

.

.

.