Sitting in the kitchen, doing a bit of stitching,
How do we know what we know;
How do we know, what we do not know.
Do they remember, or even try to recall,
Projecting their unwanted parts onto their host;
Corresponding with their ambivalent attitudes,
Stirring the emotional ***.
Indomitable minds in turmoil,
Flinging words around, to hit a guilty vein;
Frightened on the spot, leading to a senseless fight.
Tipping the scales of love to hate,
They swagger away, on their empty boastings;
The host lays grieving over the kitchen table.
Exiled from delight,
Coiled in shells of sorrow;
Their discarded heart bleeds out, the colour of blood on a butcher's block.