He sits at his table,

his fangs dripping blood,

his eyes blood red,

he plays the game of fate


He says to himself

It’s time for dinner,

I’ll take the blond one…

No, the red head

He stretches his black claws

to touch the faces in pale glass.


Shout of pain rises like smoke,

the blond face disappears.

He laughs, the sound of his laughter

cuts through the silence of the night.


In the pale glass,

the old say to him

“Let me go in style I pray thee”

The young cry to him

“Tarry a little while”


No one can touch him

for he is the ultimate finality –

He is DEATH and he would have his dinner.



2 thoughts on “Dinner

  1. Though dark, there is beauty of composed words and an inevitable truth, this poem possesses. I sense you euphemised the title and in it I find originality.

    Thanks for sharing, Fikayo.

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