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Click hereDay old bread
discarded, tossed to the wind.
No thought to pattern,
scattered hastily;
food for crows.
Crusts still intact;
fancy finger food wasn’t coveted,
but more than a casual tidbit was needed.
Freshness now leeched;
sitting on the shelf,
time offers no grace.
Crumbs no longer sustain.
Stale and without substance;
bereft of value, purity;
a murky gray.
A beggar’s banquet
tempts no more.
You don’t understand
why the scraps once held,
no longer serve me.
A ravenous appetite
demands satiation.
Credence gives hope
for a feast never before known.
Specks of mold form;
particles continue to decay.
As my back turns
the pecking begins;
squawks echo,
vultures hover, and compete
for this worthless fodder.
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 35,000 poems.
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especially the last line "and compete for this worthless fodder." Thank you!
i agree with Tath / your poetry is getting stronger, finding a voice /
and detached.
Much strength and resolve here.
: )
You are finding your voice.
keep it up
L&F is right on with his comment.
In this strange day of happenstance, as I write this comment, a squirrel has rooted through the compost pile outside and is busily devouring the butt-end of a loaf of bread. Now, I'm wondering about the vultures!!!
poem in my opinion. Strong emotions come through. Nice work irish!