A LITTLE PRAYER
The ovens sigh, the knives confess,
we season sin with gentleness.
Each soul, when carved, reveals a taste—
the butcher’s art, the baker’s waste.
The world’s our larder, stocked with schemes,
its saints are sweeter than they seem;
the sinners, tough—but well-marbled,
faith rendered down, ambition garbled.
O mercy, what a menu night!
The moon a lid, the stars alight—
each heart a roast of mortal heat,
each dream a spice too rare to eat.
So lift the cleaver, kiss the flame,
for hunger never dies of shame;
and whisper, as the bones release,
It isn’t m-rder—only peace.
:: 02.04.2026 ::
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
