dream fighter

.

three years ago,

i was ravenous.

falcons pecked away at what was left of me,

and i had forgotten what it was like to feel alive,

and with each part of me i lost,

i thought,

“this is me,”

starved and tired of grappling

for the hope of a meal

for the hope of a life

for the hope of tomorrow.

and then i got it --

a feast,

an endless platter of opportunity 

and health 

and life

and bit by bit,

i thought i was piecing myself together again.

.

three years from then,

i am tired.

the feast continues;

i have guests now, but

we all eat in uncomfortable silence.

we’re not hungry;

we’re just waiting for this to be over.

the food has no taste,

and no matter how much i of it i gorge

the mountain of it persists.

it greys around the edges from the days i’ve spent

just watching it stay there,

ominous,

knowing,

taunting,

expectant.

.

what the hell do you expect from me anyway?

.

“that’s quite a feast you’ve got there.”

yes -- and so?

what would you like me to say?

what are you thinking?

that i’m lucky; that i’m spoiled;

that i’m not allowed to look so dull, 

so grey,

so tired,

so faded,

when preparing for another day of this feast?

.

three years ago,

the feast came at my death bed.

i prayed to stay alive,

even as i was taken apart