A world whose heart rests on a plate
Dug, torn, clawed, and ripped apart
Is an entree that would give all hearts weight
Drizzled in honesty, slow-blanched in art

Eternal are feelings with no name,
No start, no ending, no nothing
While just as endless are pain acclaimed,
My plate of hands shall find eternal existing

Come rest, rest, rest, and dine
With me, my friend, we can feast on abudance
In a distant dream most faraway with wine
An offer I'd make in conscious redundance


Penned by my hand on the 11th of Phaestian, in the year 949 AF.