Some people see giant flaming orbs
of passion
Of existence
Of meaning
Me?
I see the chalky crumbs of stale bread
swept from a god's dinner plate
Onto his plus-sized denim jeans
With annoyed hands, feather-light and
lightning-quick
Every shift of his leg sends them into a
frenzy of movement,
Shimmering in and out of sight,
But still the crumbs remain
Until the sun gobbles them up with its
vacuuming rays of light
Only for them to plummet from the same plate the very next night
Rinse and repeat
But hey,
If you're cool with your divine orbs
of flame,
Then I'll keep my stale bread crumbs,
Thank you very much