Telephone on the table,
vegetables in a bowl,
ashes in a vase,
someone shuffled off of their mortal coil,
a sombre mood in the air,
crying everywhere,
and broken hearted tormented souls,
a lost loved one,
someone no more,
departed and decanted in a different form,
as the food cooks,
and the cooks they suffer more,
and drink glasses of wine,
glasses of wine as the tears pour,
as the tears pour down their face,
bemoaning the loss of their loved one,
who will never be replaced,
and as the aromas of the cooking rise,
there is morbidity in the kitchen and countless sighs,
a day for eating,
a day for eating and praying to heaven,
with the vase of ashes on the table,
and devastation writ large in everyone’s eyes.

Telephone on the table is a new poem by me Ben Robinson, more writing and poetry is available on this website.

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