What is it that

What is it that

Stills the hand

The knife is sharp

It cuts the meat clean through

Nothing is as easy

As the presentiment

Of danger makes it appear

The deft movement

Of slicing and dicing

Can be construed

As temptation

In a different form

Dinner for one

Is not for the romantic

The lights are too bright

The kitchen, too cold

There is an autosomal syndrome

Called Achoo

It is true

Uncontrollable sneezing

Under bright light.

Even thinking about something

Disagreeable can take an appetite away

The bin can have it.

No prizes are given

For playing it safe

There will be no surprises

If the mood changes

As the air moves

With the breeze from an open window

A nightingale calls

To make a mockery

Of melancholia

Hearing the beauty in it

But to wish

For something different.

It feels more like home

As the moon disappears

Into a pocket of sky

And the world grows dark.

There is nothing to see,

But memories

Can fly

Further than

The bloody kitchen sink,

The stiff drink

And the unconscious desire

To throw it all away.