Your eyes can almost see past the white wine on your table
Almost see the fish gasping for life in the huge net
But not quite
Your nose can almost detect that very particular smell of sheep, as they travel up the slaughter line
The shit and the piss. The pain and the fear.
But your senses re-direct
Perhaps your mind has once seen a cow feeding in a field
It was perfect in its innocence
Does your mind turn away from those memories?
Amidst the taste of vegetables and spices and flesh it is there
Can your discerning tongue not find it?
The taste is not subtle by any means
Amidst the pleasant conversation, if you did but search carefully
And it is not the first time you have tasted it
It is not delectable though
Your well-trained tongue tastes something peculiar. What can it be?
It has always been there
It is the taste of death
There are three of you at your table:
You, and your friend,
And your victim.
Featured image: “Despair.” Image credit: Jo Guldi, CC BY-SA 3.0
Ashby, I love this poem! The final verse, “There are three of you at your table: you, and your friend, and your victim,” works really well as a stand-alone quote as well.