The Last Supper
It was in the dark of night
When the owls cried and the ravens cawed.
That’s when the candle lit dinner for two was served,
Spread on the red tablecloth of savoury sight.
Mumbling whispers of love breached the silence
In the eclectic electricity of brushing bodies,
Announcing the passion to come of our fiery essence,
But the dawn will drown the expectation.
The stained plates with sticky crumbs of broken love,
The pan with the fried mess of an uneaten passion.
Littered the kitchen sink as hope sunk in the hopeless oblivion.
There’d be cleansing as the brush wiped away the sticky fervour.
Of the love that never was,
Of the dream that was an illusion,
But the two plates still bear the crack and mark of that fallen love.
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