Bread Of Man


inside the hollow halls a column stands

a solemn man set in stasis

hang the mask of the borrowed face

kept misplaced in a narrow basement


places dinner right in front of me

the mouth may be too big to feed

all eyes and no teeth

he tries but can't speak


the light of persuasion dims the ochre moon

the talons of morning clutch the bread of man

a shadow of vibration is leaving the skin

you can't swallow the life adjacent to the one you're living in


the footsteps are not mine or yours

they follow a metal horse

granted wormholes and holograms to understand

feeling pigeon-toed, holed-up, and cramped

the stain of hands on the machines will never wash clean

the footsteps are not mine or yours



Words by travist.paine. ©2004



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