A Feast of Sorts

In the lowliest corner of the greatest of cities

A single tree grows amidst hundreds of shanties

As day folds to night and the sky closes its tent

Three scrawny frames lie below branches, half-hungry, half-spent.

Empty stomachs cry out defiantly, battling decay

Yet another day’s earnings just wasted away

Though cool winds can’t pierce as deep as malnutrition

The tree’s clapping hands give a new invitation—to feast.

“Come witness bright and hollow stars waging heavenly wars

The Elder Father dances and girds up his cords

Dead white lights descend upon the children of men

Lights empty of warmth, enslaving all who worship them.

Mourning the feeble bones and knotted hearts of Earth’s kinsmen

The Morning Sun supernovas in condescension

Bursting flames shatter bonds, enabling man and tree

To pledge allegiance to the Sun for all eternity.”

As the tree ceases to chant, the three arise in new song

Reminded their feast surpasses the strong’s. They sing

“In the wealthiest tower of the poorest of cities

A woeful man lived above hundreds of shanties

As night opened to day and the dark closed its gates

The heavyset man laid aside many plates, half-finished.

For despite his full stomach, he never shared food or meed

and harbored his earnings as captives unto greed

’Til late one evening, when the cold wind brought a friend

A Dove flew to the window and invited him in—to feast.

’Behold, the Sun over Heaven requests an audience

Come dine in the Cosmos, bring all of your servants

For the Morning Sun shall soon be wed to the Moon

Witness Celestial Beauties collide, escape your gloom.’

But as he’d eaten his fill, he turned and went back to bed

So the dove tore him to shreds and dropped him dead—below.”