you hand me
the extra loaf
of bread
and
I devour it
devoid of
thankfulness.
Is this not a meal worthy of the greatest man on Earth?

I am hungry still.

I take your fingers
still wreathed
in dough
and smelling
of hard work
and tradition.
In my mouth
they are but morsels.
Is this not a meal worthy of the greatest man on Earth?

I am hungry still.

I take your daughter;
my teeth and
my nails
penetrate her flesh
and I swell up
with hunger
and desire,
as her body
drips like
hot bread
sunken in
sweet summer wine.
Is this not a feast worthy of the greatest man on Earth?

I am hungry still.

I take your dreams
and grind them up
into dust.
A dust that stains,
a dust that erodes
and oxidates
and rots away
at your future.
Is this not a feast worthy of the greatest man on Earth?

I am hungry still.

I devour your hope,
just like I did
your child,
just like I did
your future.
I turn it all
into rust
and biofilm.
Is this not a feast worthy of the greatest man on Earth?

I am hungry still.

I take your land,
your home,
and the breadcrumbs
of your failing
dignity.
Is this not a meal worthy of the greatest man on Earth?

I hunger still.

I eat the sky,
the sea,
and the mountains
too.
Is this not a meal worthy of the greatest man on Earth?

I hunger still.

I take it all,
for nothing
seems to
fill my gut,
and nothing still
can ease my need.

I hunger still.

I devour the nothingness,
for there is
nothing left
for the greatest man on Earth
to eat.