Slippery Irony

In the jug of the world, time was coming to a boil,
On the stove of fate, where death is merely a farce.
The kettle – an old one, with a crack on its side –
Suddenly awakened within its own prophecy.

“I am God!” it thundered menacingly from its spout,
Though it poured out only steam and slippery irony.
Following it, the plates rose up,
Dictating their own morals and verses.

The fork – a pastor among a gang of knives,
The salt sprinkled wherever it spotted a sin.
The glasses held a meeting in the drawer,
And the spoon ran away – to a lover in the marmalade.

The world tilted, all boundaries vanished:
What is existence – depends on the imagination.
But the kettle kept boiling: without water and without meaning…
For it was a God – only within its own bowl.