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
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?