Sam plays a rhythm,
On the upturned stone cauldron,
That he bought on some lost weekend,
In the tropics of South China.
His rhythm is unsteady,
But it is awful, with a blistering pace,
Carries the air upon a slipstream,
Moves the portraits on the walls,
And hides useless reciepts,
Where no one can observe
The gluttony of this house,
Of those who claim occupancy.
I do enjoy these moments,
They swell the communal pride,
We are all in it together,
The same outcome,
We all nourish the self-same terror,
But threaded through exotically.
The cauldron’s hollow basin hides tales,
Of things we won’t ever understand.
These moments are food,
For our meagre appetite,
The one that feeds,
On walks along tangled and outdated trails,
On languages with beautiful sounds,
On the smell of poison seeping through the air,
And on the horror,
The realisation of our fate,
Which leads us, someday, away,
Which leads all the way,