Stew

Good evening, compatriots. I’ve got a fun little poem for you. Try to read it as if you’re reading a storybook to a group of little kids around the campfire. Feel its somber embrace through the sad and haughty tone by which you might read it, breathe life into its hills and its valleys with macabre sensibility, drag yourself on a journey through those hopeful reverberations… or just read the damn thing with that funny little voice you have in your head. I sincerely hope you enjoy any way you choose. Without further ado…

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Stew

And so it was

that the little boy I met

in the forest

by the river

became a sad, sad, angry man

with many, many, many regrets.

~

And in his sadness,

and in his anger,

and in his regret

did the man sit.

~

The man would sit

and he would stew

until eventually

he liquefied

and he himself became a stew

inside a great, big, silver pot.

~

Others would come,

then,

to take and take

until he was all gone.

~

Except that pot never did empty,

nor did that stew ever sour.

It simply came to pass

that one might pass

on the road,

another one

whose belly seemed

just a little fuller.