With the slightest flicker of cold eyes
my seppuku is complete, and I fall,
honour restored, my salvation intact.
But what really kills me
really twists the knife
are the wet slate tears
that you allow to come, witness
for my prosecution.
We eagerly devoured ourselves,
gorged,
any ration being useless
until our bowl of desire, once brimming,
was left only with pallid dregs
flecked in the cracked shallows.
Our pathetic disbelief
that this banquet could endure,
is scorned upon by our jurors
and I am the one to notice first.
My love has staled,
yours still blooms
and I can no longer satisfy,
this tragic appetite.
© Graham Sherwood 01/2014
