Nothing In The Pot Is Fit To Eat Poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar

Madness driven and pushed to the edge.
Everything they believe in lays crushed and dead.
A compromise can not be reached!
They seek a singeing that burns within.
And rage they do!
It is preferred instead.

They've been scorched and scrambled...
With a temper peppered and teased.
They thought they'd be buttered up and warmed,
Charm toasted, held close and slightly squeezed.

But a shoulder getting colder,
Is what they found in the pot.
And the pot was not about to get heated.

Madness driven and pushed to the edge.
Everything they believe in lays crushed and dead.
A compromise can not be reached!
They seek a singeing that burns within.
And rage they do!
It is preferred instead.

They've been scorched and scrambled...
With a temper peppered and teased.
They thought they'd be buttered up and warmed,
Charm toasted, held close and slightly squeezed.

But a shoulder getting colder,
Is what they found in the pot.
And the pot was not about to get heated.

No...
The pot was not about to get heated.
And...
Nothing in the pot is fit to eat!
Since...
Emptiness is in it and not meat!