table for one? -- a poem
It must be about you, then, he said to the moon. There was no reply. It is, isn't it? His ears rang and his jaw clenched as pain and rage took their respective seats at the table for another night’s discussion. Eat, then, said the pain. My appetite has gone, replied the rage. They looked to the soul, who shrugged and turned, hands in pockets. How could she? How dare she? Who is she? And so, moon, I have decided that it must be about you. It has to be about you.
