silver lining

a spoon dips its ladle into the enigmatic soup of man. arising from the depths of the bowl we call earth, it splashes with pain, burning those who dare to reach too close. steam rises from the head cradled within the concavity of the mended mirror, screaming in the horror riddled with grief. the spoon peeks at the odious stock it holds in its hands. it finds that it is muddled in browns and grays that could not belong to anything classified as alive. Unsatisfied, the spoon dumps its collection over its shoulder and tries again. this time, the soup begins to burn a hole through the base of the ladle. quickly, it is dumped over the spoon’s shoulder. scoop. dump. repeat. the spoon finds itself unsatisfied with the rotten, interlaced species it believes is man. it scrapes as it has reached the coda of its exploration. scraping, scraping, scraping, the spoon weeps. it slurps from its own ladle, starved. its final remains of hope seemingly seeping out with the salty debris caked on its own cold cheeks. for all that the spoon longs for lies in a puddle over its shoulder, plagued by the miniscule speck of silver that shimmer under the eerie fluorescent light.