What Feasts

From birth we are fed the scream of nothing

in a world that has everything.

Those who would love us

lift us and set us loose

within walls with fragile insight.

Faintly a step further and the

world ensnares us.

There is nothing but children

etched with hardened expression.

The helm contains no chain

and so we sail through the ambient ink.

We must learn to stop swimming.

Beneath the turbulent surf

may lie new life in silent vistas.

Nameless things here may feast,

but so we allow it as we consume in turn.

As I sink towards the bottom,

there is much to be seen anew.

What offered treading but

conflict born from fear?