The Luncheon of the Sixth Spell

Two benches poised as statues

A hue of nebulous brown

A seat upon which none can refuse

An individual obliged to sit down

Yet upon these two benches

Perched already are two souls

Both consuming their own lunches

With two contrasting roles

One thrives on social engagement

With fingers that fly like fowl

A personality quite flagrant

Speaking with a distinguishable howl

In comparison the other appears reclusive

Yet speak of something in which she be keen

And her intellect becomes illusive

Resulting in a rather thought-provoking scene

These seats are where these two doth land

Placed adjacent with each other

As if arranged by an unseen hand

Who desires a collision of two who be so disparate and asunder 

Tensions betwixt the pair noticeably build

As strikes are made with upmost tenacity

The two are undoubtedly skilled

And fight with noticeable vivacity

And here I stand, a wretched spectator

Forced against my own desire

To be thy knowing narrator

And a witness of this unyielding fire

The battle wounds me to my core

But unable to move my cemented feet

I am forced to remain amongst the gore

A being no more than obsolete

In no man’s land is my place

Salvation dependent on the toll of the bell

The struggle rages on as I attempt to keep a straight face

Oh how I can’t wait to escape this Hell