The once I was, so fragile and glass,
Carrying a plate, unfilled and vast.
Piercing gazes of wanderers adored,
Curdled like milk where love was stored.

Oh heavens, I am banished, for I cannot give the flesh,
Trapped in this emptiness, soul left to thresh.
The hunger unquenched on this forsaken plate,
As they vociferate Lucifer in this desolate state.

Stripped of all I could have claimed,
The broken pieces bleed the void,
And it swallows whole, consuming still
The soul that once was pure.

But does the void drink the blood that it spills,
Or does it hunger for something still?
Does it whisper of what was, or laugh as it feeds,
Or is it simply my voice, echoing needs?

Is it the plate that shapes what I am to be,
Or am I still I, even when set free?
Was I the plate, the feast, the giver,
Or merely hunger made to wither?

If I am not the vessel, then what remains,
A ghost of a banquet, or echoes of names?
And if I was never enough to consume,
Was I meant to be devoured or meant to exhume?

If I shatter, do I cease to exist,
Or am I reborn in the slivers that twist?
If nothing is left, then what was the cost,
Was I ever whole, or just something lost?

If absence is endless, can it be filled,
Or does it stretch until time is stilled?
If the void stares back, does it recognize me,
Or does it reshape me, nameless and free?

If I gather the pieces, do they still fit,
Or was I never meant to commit?
If the feast was a lie, was the hunger real,
Or was I just meant to kneel?

And if I kneel, does that mean I remain,
Or was I never here to begin with?