Where The Food Rotted, Not by Warren Jeremy Rourke

Warren Jeremy Rourke | November 4th, 2025 | poetry | No Comments

Poem

Dear Miss Havisham,

Is it a granadilla ice-cream cake
neverending, elemental ooze sobs
across the undusted reception table so requite
here, inside the opened pity party gate, before
imagined heavened fields full, of us deferred
waiting, to ever find our ever emptinesses
as a pip, the Fate Baker leaves inside a story
to grow, whom what could not be unleavened
and the greatest of all expectations
never lost, and why did this our
staying room just
not go dark?

A boy smiles, and the door
to a world window opens that
long shuttered beetles of eternal life
already knew, when rolling about away
invaluable inheritances, and the foundry
air, remains so grey
yet is decay, no more.

Poet Bio

Warren Jeremy Rourke is an Empath. He is learning to integrate his shadow, so that the world ends, where he begins, just as the AI-generated Carl Jung on YouTube, advises. He may also be an INFJ, according to his previous identifications with various mental illnesses, through which he has learnt first-hand, how horribly people with disorders, are treated, by those who would believe themselves to be good people.

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