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…
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.
Poems by Sam 