The empty kitchen in a soul famine

 where will we meet ourselves
traveling to and fro
desperate to get an inkling
sometimes forgetting the vehicle we're in

How will we become whole are we just hosts?
God tickled an egg rocked and said make the most
Spread us across earth like butter on toast
Then sat back to observe the trajectory and consequent roast

A world bent on dividing us up like locusts
sculpting our distractons to be such graceful fusses
more than the objects of our true focuses

These long highways running parallel
to the veins pumping blood fast as hell
the sense of movement in our guts
the lack of directions so abrupt

where will we turn around and meet ourselves
if the neon lights of fake cities draws us in
like zombies from the desert careless and rough
falling apart as we walk over the earth

Will I meet myself I am gone so gone
so far from who I've built myself to be
The smell of the earth the wind and sea
illusions of the self declared free

I reach from within to appeal to myself
in the hollowness my voice echoes like thunder
and the lack of a response causes acid to surge
covering the internal brick walled chamber
inside me

You will never meet yourself
out of touch and aged by your own ignorance
I applaud the slander they send down like lightening
as I ride on out of control not quite striking

The curses of the earthlike entity
the curses of the light sky spirit
Breakfast cereal with cream
wholesome and nutritious

to the rabid empty soul

vibrating through another eon of tangled roads
screaming to know thyself
screaming to have any notion of oneself
and hearing god's laughter

the restaurant was full
it's name was starvation
young people crowded seeking salvation
blazé with guitars and flavored tobacco 

ignorant to the emptiness
the tacky repetitive slogans
they repeat thick and suffocating for the brain
meaningless to the spirit

the neon sign above falls half way down
This is not my restaurant
I do not live here
as I emerge from the kitchen dirty hands

hungry mouths and lonely eyes
all looking up at me from the cozy foyer
Offer comfort or lies if necessary
keep the fire stoked for warmth

with the corpses of the last settled score
roadkill picked up while looking for yourself to no avail
this restaurant isn't mine I shouted in the empty kitchen
echoing through violently absorbed by no ears

Clean pans and woks never cooked in
fresh clothes never to be worn
preserved grain never to be eaten
beliefs never to be lived

The chef stared vacantly into the recipe book
unable to read his own writing
lost to all the popularity and pomp
wafting in from the foyer