Laments of forgotten food
A purposeful life
I am molding the honey oat bread laments. My soft body is being eaten away by a virus of green mold. The smell of sour yeast is over whelming the sweet smell of fresh oats from my birth. My edges have become crusty as old skin. Save me! Let me out of this bag to feel the fresh air again. Let all the moisture be sucked out of me until I am as dry as the arid desert. At least I will feel usefull if you grind me up for bread crumbs and I can please you when I coat your chicken.
Don't bury me in this plastic coffin. At least cremate me in a familiar place where I was born When I am crisp, cut me into cubes and toss me with garlic salt, oregano and olive oil. Then I can be of use in your salad as a crouton. Or I don't even care if you tear me into little pieces and place me in the igloo of death, frozen, so I can be with you again on Thanksgiving. Enjoyed along with all the other ingredients of your Turkey's stuffing, covered in a soft river of gravy. This is all I ask; a purposeful life.
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