A set of tattered, old, flat books are the centerpiece
And as the candles are lit
The red lobster glows
Everything is still,
And the feast is revealed

But there is one mystery
Sitting on top the tattered, old, flat books
But for now, in the vase,
The symmetrically silk petals that are rounded together
Are the same aureate, geometric measures discovered on the carpet below

The grapes nor the apples nor the oysters
Are poisonous
But on top of the centerpiece
A lurking, terrifying beast
Sweetly poisons the air

The auric chairs are empty,
But the dishes are full
The beans, rice
Greens, eggs
Adorn the corners of the exquisite table

The icy air is missing something,
Missing love,
And while a human portrait hangs above the feast,
The haunting comes from the center
And seethes with condescension and fright

The meals are silently decomposing
And the waft of warm,
Tender, savory, Fluffy As Clouds
Biscuits is gone, and it has been replaced
By an object against the norm.

The cork of the bottle pops out
And hits the cup like a domino
But the cup’s chocolate swirls of cream
Dance around playfully
As if a hit is not physical violence

The food,
The table, the chairs
Are all for royal humans
That are late for their feast
That is losing color

Still
Frozen
Cold
Silent
Time

Is it true that the feast is fixed in time?
Or is it time that is fixed in time?
The clock’s eyes pierce the lobster,
The beans, the candles, the empty auric chairs
But it is no match for the
Glare of the monstrous object

That perfects sits on top of those tattered, old, flat books
That I have previously called the centerpiece
Of this quiet, lonely feast