An Ire

Sitting high atop a dining chair, A feast of words tonight, And crawling in the window sill, A gnat breaks through the fight, Giving in or giving out, Seeking all but praise, The end is near, So don’t you fear, This is the end of days. Sitting slouched low below the dining chair, The victor grovels now, Wishing pleading, Biting bleeding, Sweat dangling from his brow. Closing in or drawing near, Whichever seems more dire dear, The judgement rushes in, And with the hammer, Swiftly stammer, Let the game begin. Sitting high atop a dining chair, A feast of tears tonight, And quenching thirst, Seeking rest or light, Dreaming now or dreaming less, Bleeding from your ear, So don’t look down, Your broken crown, Never truly quite clever or clear.