Hunger fills me, though not for food.
A feast of one, but with a brood,
who watches motion, but cannot move.
It’s a fancy affair but full of gall.
A shining light casts a dreadful pall.
No body writes the writing on the wall.
There’s mischief afoot in this mellow fray.
The faithful now fake, the pack now prey.
A club could beat us, but could never slay.
Those below walk above in this rotten place.
There’s nowhere to go, but there's still a chase.
The host is all over yet won’t show his face.
A rainbow blazes upon the ground.
King without crown, player without sound.
Pity the sleeper that comes around.
Peter O’Donovan is a scientist and writer living in Seattle, WA. Originally from Saskatchewan, he received his doctorate from the University of Toronto, studying design aesthetics. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Typehouse, Sheila-Na-Gig, Qwerty, and the Torontoist.
The Ekphrastic Review
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