Crumbs

Day 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.