A minute portion, an iota of matter
That actually doesn't matter at all.
It just about sums  up the motes of life.
Our fragment of life may touch one,
May touch many, but in the end we're all
Small grains of a larger whole.

The sands of time, the granules of the host at Eucharist.
The scientific nucleus
How dichotomous
Religious and scientific particles
Floating in either a Petrie dish or religious fervour
We are particular particles forever searching
Searching for us, for truth and our beginning.

Chilly even in the sun
Sunday roast cooking
Hoping you'll come
Open bottle of wine
Breathing

Seething, once again
You've chosen a pub lunch
Who with? I ask,when you return
Oh the usual bunch, you reply
A lie, since when did the "usual" bunch
Wear red lipstick to a pub lunch?

The red stain glares at me from your collar
I let the stain slide, I pour myself the wine
I pick up the carving knife
That's been ready to slice
I return to being the wife

"I'm guessing your full" I say
Oh no, my appetite for your Sunday lunch is intact
Was the reply
And, why not you've not eaten food per se

Won't be a minute, I shout
Just dishing the meal out
Sit at the table I'll bring it in
This I say whilst taking off my wedding ring

I carry the plate to his place at the table
Won't be a sec I'll just go and get mine I say
The kitchen is chilly
But I'm not shivering
I pick up the knife that will end my being a wife.

When did sorry become throwaway?
When did remorse become a game to play?
When did I become an adult?
When did I lock myself in a vault?

When did life become so serious?
When did life become so meaningless?
When did you and I last cry?
When did we both ask why?

When did we re-evaluate our pain?
When did we measure our gain?
When did you and I remain,
Together,  forever, in emotion and shame?