I sit on a set table

The faces surrounding me look unfamiliar

This grand room with shiny floors

Is a dungeon of silence

Dinner is served, sacredly

We dine together every rest day

The plates out, ceremoniously set

But within this room

There lies no rest

Can anyone break this silence?

Can we unfence our pretences and simply break… the bread?

A voice, like sour wine, graces the table…

“For what we are about to receive, may we be truly grateful.”

A tinkling interrupts the sounding brass

As my elbow accidentally knocks the stainless steel

The moment, cold as steel

But beneath our skin, blood boils

Will we ever break… the bread?

Will we ever recall at all

The reason why we maintain this awkward ritual?

I seem to remember all that is insignificant

These shiny floors

This grand room

Inside this magnificent prison,

We have set camp in the bliss of ignorance

The bread…

We don’t touch it.

We stare at it,

Become stale on its behalf

Why is that?

Our hands haven’t cracked a crust

Haven’t felt the crumbs fall like dust from our finger-tips

Nor wiped the leftovers from the sides of our mouths

Let alone shared a piece

There is bread on the table

Yet we remain unfed


And far too many words left unsaid

We are never fully filled

By food which we aren’t hungry for…

The bread is always on offer

But now I’m starting to wonder

How long for?

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