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The Last Supper
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Death Quite surprised that he felt no fear,
He made a meal of the memories of those
He held most dear.
His mother, he offered his thanks
For the cup of knowledge given to him
And unwittingly drank.
His father, he wanted to ask why
He had given him nourishment of life
And then let it die.
To God, he wanted to return
The ingredients for the recipe of life
That he never could quite learn.
And as he contemplated his last supper
He found it difficult to percieve,
That what society force fed him
He never could believe.
Yet 'Isn't it funny' he thought
As he poured the blood red wine
'Isn't it funny, that the truth was never mine'?
no the truth never was
it was always his father's
~changing lanes~
many claim to have love for God
yet how can this be so
when they reject themselve
(in which we are mere reflections of he)
~changing lanes~
If you were to take a mirror
and smash it into seven pieces
(not subscribing the it's myth of luck)
would not there lie upon the floor
seven precise reflections of self?
better still - if broken each piece
into seven fragments, would there
not be fourty-nine precise reflections
of self? (the Ultimate proof)
Much Respect, One Love