The Last Supper by Ann Wood
The Last SupperLong field of candles ...
Bree of men, boils:
everyone sells something,
everyone counts three.
Instead of a hand - a table.
Heavy silver shines.
The Lord even descends,
he has to pay.
Lose or win -
the whole world is a die.
We think it's dinner,
it's actually a bitter market.
Faith - living relics
in a severe infarct paradise.
They tear tears and forgiveness.
The table has no end.
God, what a delusion!
He wears the life of boss
with six billion Judith ...
And only one Christ.
Poetry by Ann Wood
Read 460 times
Written on 2018-04-05 at 12:12
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