IN THE SAWMILL OF PASSIONS

All those features you once held divine,
Now are gathering folds on the brow;
And the rafters, unsteady in line,
Are dismantled to coffin-wood now.

From the sawmill’s high-pitched rising whine,
Far away echoes weave a nocturne;
From the rafters fly splinters like brine,
To the heart’s seething fryer they turn.

Asked if frying or crisping would suit,
I replied: let it crack to the bone;
Dinner served—we consumed it in mute,
In the sawmill of passions alone.