Sitting at the breakfast table, Not able to grasp the minds, thoughts that plague us. A brutal, barbaric, battle, yet the exterior is serene.
They laugh, they scream, and cry and taunt me. More than any other, more than a mother, or father or friend or brother, but why bother? I'm sitting at the breakfast table.
Ungodly demons, devils thrashing at the non-sunken gates of heaven; reinforced with the two one-way windows of the at war minds and souls. Fractured and no longer one.
Hidden, tucked away so unlike a child in bed, unable to be reached or comprehended to a percent of the virtuous, villainous nature of - angels and demons, sitting at the breakfast table.
Alas, life goes on, does it not? Pass you by unmercifully not caring, if you can keep up. Who knows, and who cares? No one we suppose. Oh well, back to the table then.