The Last Supper

Lives ruined in place–

ego upon a pedestal

basks in sunshine

yet never feels

unless destroying green things

in the softness of evening

when moon and sun fill

the evening skies

of shorter days–

time no longer

a forgotten toy

thrown by the wayside

but an ornament of luxury

I wish I could hold close

within my hands without

it leaks between my fingers

marking any signs of reverence

as if with blood irony–

all the while the rest cough

green phlegm of ill regard.

 

On the walls fling the words of meaning,

clichés all—of love and family,

of time so very treasured,

the welcome of strangers

without the pillar of salt,

the love of neighbors in a city quest,

and asking, pleading how have we hid

the monsters we do hide within our homes,

within our churches,

within our souls and hearts–

the monsters, the demons we cannot exorcise

since we cannot stand to see our own

face within our reflections upon time,

creation, connections to the past—

when we cannot acknowledge

the face of God hidden away

from the reflection of our own faces,

in the faces of others, the face of God

hidden away, void of the divine,

as are we consumed with consuming

vitriol for anything, for everything

remotely resembling the other.