They sit
like the curve of a parabola
facing in.

Though they do not see each other.
He sees only himself
amidst the gore and rot
which once passed as
a picnic lunch.

Pickled spines
and curried thought processes
to name but a few
of the delectables today.

In he reaches,
grabbing handfuls of cured flesh,
and not leaving any time
for chewing.

The yellow fog is syrup
and makes him
heavy-headed.

The trees are old men,
curved backs
and withered from living.
They only want a kind ear
to hear their untold stories of
life, love and death.

Glutton wants food.
he guzzles and guzzles
and never listens to those
who want him to listen.

So he eats,
they cry,
they die
and they are all alone together.