My Banquet.

 I choke on your scent
like veal cutlets
my palate,
was never meant to ponder

I move away
but you follow me
down, beneath
all logical levels of reason

and at the end
you turn and whimper
frightened, at a table
laid with delicate traps

asking of me
some, fools notion
sprung
from an age of fairies

Hypocrite!
this was not descent into
some bards song,
to be played out on a tune

these are my halls
I decorate them as my own
be seated,
taste my banquet


or leave.