poetry

The Last Supper

What an evening we shared
upon the dining table,
whence I found a knife dug in
through the cage on beating stakes.
You smiled a malicious grin
with much tapered innocence.
Though your hand rest not upon,
them eyes beam down the handle
securing it with vigor.
I, the lamb. Forsake me not.
Mine own sins remain unwashed.
To feast on me is folly
a ceremony of fools
but for you, an earless beast,
heeding warnings is deafened.
And so, as you bless my heart
you disastrously pledge
to fanatic lunacy.

Daily post Disastrous

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3 thoughts on “The Last Supper”

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