At the table, they gather ’round,
Three troubles seated, no solace found.
One wears the face of silent despair,
His whispers linger in the stale air.

Another, bold, with a fiery gaze,
Speaks in riddles of unending space.
He shuffles the forks, the knives, the spoons,
Turning my feast to shadowed ruins.

The third, a ghost, menacing and weepy,
His eyes empty, his voice creepy.
So apt, his presence chills the marrow bone,
A reminder that I dine alone.

I serve them bread, they take my pieces,
Pour wine, to fill their angry creases.
Their hunger grows, their plates stay bare,
They feast on moments I cannot spare.

Oh, my three troubles, relentless and cruel,
Turning my table to their twisted school.
But I rise, though weary, and light the space,
To chase their shadows, reclaim my face.

For dinner ends, as all things must,
And troubles scatter like wind-blown dust.
I clear the table, I breathe, I stand—
Tomorrow’s feast will be of my own hand.

©2025 S. Mottet bloomhearty.com

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