A Great Feast Poem by Aimee Woolford

Of blood; of bones; of coursing roads and traffic
That runs through, holding our living tracks in its grasp.
I let you feast, for if you don't
It is likely you shall feast on yourself for
Satisfaction.

All I'm doing is preventing a suicide:
I can only prevent, and have prevented and will.

Blind me to what I once believed, and shall believe.
I have no intention of being given the view
Anymore - no-
it doesn't suit.