Violinist, Frightened

A violinist plays beside me,
as I eat dinner with my black knight.
Oh, how we feasted.
On those fettucini shells I fed you,
on that scrumptious chocolate cake
you stole from my plate,
acting like the dog you've made me.
Oh, how many moments I spent during that time,
admiring the silverware,
that beautifully sharpened steak knife,
that succulent alfredo sauce-covered fork,
and oh, how they would just make you go away.
How they would just plunge into your skin
and make blood dribble onto your chin,
not pasta sauce.
How the screams would echo around us,
and that piece of cutlery would pierce
your dark shadowy flesh.
How the violinist beside me
would take up his violin
and run away from me,
so frightened,
so scared,
that that mad woman
at the table behind him,
would take up her cutlery
and make with it after him.
Oh, my black knight,
how I thought of all this,
while you grinned at me, so hideously.
Grinning back,
with the secret knowledge,
I have
that the slave
always learns, in the end,
how to win over the master.