The Last Supper

Love falling away, not by your choice or mine
Divine porridge of the damned, flavoured by my thumb,
poisioned salad on my plate, broken bread,
shattered dreams
unknown distance, eaten with smiles of sadness
Living art kicked out into the snow,
criminal to look back now, long ago friends decided
Drag and paste my picture in past pages, and move on
Maybe someday they'll pave these streets,
Until then I'll muddy my feet with the broken promise,
and the tears of the unfair pain, that ask the sun not to rise
nor to shine,
on the wicked truth, that burns our souls, in the absence of
a warm embrace

No prophet,
No apostles
No hope for redemption
only the ice in my veins whithering and gone black
by a trusted friend, and
this cancerous unwaivering love.
That longs to destroy me.

by Wilfred Owen Bitner

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