poetry

reynolds-tin

It starved me then. So I ate from it twice.

You gave me everything,
    Yet nailed me to nothing.
  You wept me wondering,
      To rare things chained:
    The absence of anything
        But purest pain
      And whatever else raw-remained.
          You weren’t ashamed—
        But I was.
            Perhaps, you should’ve been.
          From nothing, I made something.
              In that odd thing, I met myself.
            Off the shelf and on Reynolds-tin,
                I made supper for one;
              It starved me then.
            So I ate from it twice.
              By thrice, I was sparingly sustained.
                Of burnt bread maintained,
            Rationing hope-crumbs—
              One part alive, what-parts dead—
          I fought-up that fray-ridden rope
            To the truth-lit ring
        Of all you’d hidden overhead.
          Lifted onto earth,
      Lost-boyish into sky,
        Racingly, now, am I wholeheartedly
    Open-eyed and freedom-fed.
      I could hate you for it,
  Yet love you jaded-still—
    While fast-thanking
You away instead.


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