He looked upon his disciples
and said

“He who casts the dice
will be vindicated”

Astonished, they stared
at him, mouths agape

Theirs was a long silence
Nobody dared to commence
a speech act

All actors speak in tongues
Every cheek needs a tongue
Every secret needs a cheek
to hide the folly of man

Speaking is a discipline
that can be learned

Every once in a while
a disciple needs a bite
to eat

Even the learned
feel the need
to chow down
on a fleshy piece
of mouthwatering sense
from time to time

Across all epochs
of humanity’s
sleepwaking state
the dreamer spoke up
when everyone else
lay still

He bit off a bit of his tongue
tasting the metal
swallowed the pint
and replied

“A dice throw is
akin to onion soup:
as you peel back
the layers, it stings
it takes a bite
out of you
At mealtime
you get your revenge
Supper is always
the last act for someone”

They buried him
in an unknown
unmarked mass grave
just days later
before the soup
could mature enough
to realize its full
potential

His eyes were red
They still had tears
inside them

He smiled a full-belly
smile saying

“The hungry know
how to feed themselves
Every discipline seeks out
its own disciples
Every disciple is subject
to his own discipline
Hunger and its limits are
known only to the hungry”