Walkin on Air

Gluttony's Endstation

Have you ever loved the butchers:
delicatessen type who makes gourmet
dishes and succulent tidbits,
pates, sausages and what's its
that go well with French red-wine bouquet,
fine threads and for the feet blushers?

Imagine sunshine sheen photons
as rude ‘burst-forth' revelatory truth
echo rebounding off mute stone:
RIP, rest in pieces all alone;
dreams of eternal life vanished with youth
absorbed by a gorger's tampon.

Startling passage grave ruins thrive
among the cowslip bordered alleyways
crisscrossing the ancient bone-yards,
where lie entombed many blackguards,
whose excess like Vesuvian Pompeii
left of themselves nothing alive.

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Gluttony`s Endstation

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