The Dinner

In cold and through the swamps,
The thieves are walking, grouped in two,
With chains crawling at their legs,
As if working in muds of sweat.

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The instant ramen is ready.

It's night. It's raining..
A heavy spoon, and big as a shovel,
Spoons the soup, just in one move,

And gargles it in an instant.

Few have killed,
Few serving terms for a theft, or a dream..
Irrelevant what others did:
Dozed off the rich, or frightened thee poor.

Green and bruised like zombies,
Grimaced from the shoulders, hip and legs,
In the hot bowl of soup, with yellow steams,
A pile of blood, and dreams.