A mere bite won’t satiate the shadow.
The smallest morsel can’t fill its appetite.
The hunger never ends and we’re precisely what it craves.
We shed a tear, the shadow sets the table.
We clench our fists; the shadow grips a fork.
We cower in fear; the shadow licks its lips …
Our dreams go great with wine,
and our hope is picked by toothpicks.
A portion of you is never enough.
It wants to pick you apart
piece by piece,
and leave your bones for the
dogs at his feet.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
A mere bite won’t satiate the shadow.
The smallest morsel can’t fill its appetite.
The hunger never ends and we’re precisely what it craves.
We shed a tear, the shadow sets the table.
We clench our fists; the shadow grips a fork.
We cower in fear; the shadow licks its lips …
Our dreams go great with wine,
and our hope is picked by toothpicks.
A portion of you is never enough.
It wants to pick you apart
piece by piece,
and leave your bones for the
dogs at his feet.
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