Last Supper – A Winter Sonnet
Rev. Rebecca Guile
I spit the words you made me eat, and then
they land on you as there you stand aghast –
You cringe and stare at what you said; thick phlegm
bedecks your face, a white-hot, slimy blast.
They left a taste, a bitter paste of hate
and painful anger. Tongue to teeth, I fled
the room and slapped the twisted hands of fate
from off my neck as choking life-breath bled.
I tripped, you screamed and tried to grab me back –
Too late for that, and now we fall apart.
The precipice is yawning, grim, deep black
and down I plunge, my ending and my start.
The forge of stellar flame blows hot, then cold
as melting, sculpted frozen wings unfold