Time To Dine

If the time to dine came earlier than expected

mercurial strips of ether would waft across the table

enveloping guests

and no roast would appear.


For in the timing of the meal

lies the secret of its nourishment.


A ghostly frisson plays around the room

the stench of ectoplasm

retched from shores of cardiac arrest

seemingly pleased about the profit made from tasks

enslaved upon the populace

and the troll only made it tamer.


So come dine on time

for history can now reveal

the imploded vestry

caught in the vial

harboured by a virgin.

return to poems' homepage