All for naught, he sometimes thought,
those very words that kept escaping
From his sight towards the light,
leaving him, all once, forsaken.
Empty minds with nothing – kind
as like a flighty pigeon taken.
Count obsession, three of seven
those whose thoughts that are not shaken.
Sliced as such, but not too much,
when they only just awakened.
Cupboard’s bare with little spare,
save pumpkin bread and crispy bacon.