The Last Supper
My life was peaceful,
not until you came.
I've become hungrily eager to
invite you home.
At first, it was fine.
But little by little,
it becomes out of line.
I wondered,
what's the matter?
Forasmuch as I remember,
I never served stale foods on the table.
What else do you need?
It saddened me when you brought your own food and ate beside me,
just for a while.
From that moment on, I've found myself unsatisfied.
So I tasted yours while letting mine rot.
Too late to realize, at that time you intended to deceive me.
But I must admit, the feeling was indeed high.
All foreign.
It tasted so good,
not just what you brought and what you did
but knowing we're sharing the same table,
I couldn't ask for more.
YOU ARE READING
Under The Casket Of Hatred And Oppression
PoetryThese short poems ideas flow from my emotional self. They arrive the same way as dreams do. So always I begin with a head empty of words and let my feelings go flow. Read at your own Discretion
