Feast Of Fools Poem by Bryan Riley

I need some salt
to fill my wounds
In tune with every-
thing I've seen
Machine-like
rattle pitch and roll
Some of the parts
make up a wholly
different whole
Take a number
Feel the shame
A teacup filled
with drops of rain
To stop to try
to get across
An endless waste
in which to die
In winding down,
to swim or drown
This sleepy
artificial town
Weave a color
Stand in line
A feast of fools
'pon which they dine