The Last Supper Poem by emergingfrom thedark

After taking the cup of tomato soup,
she gave thanks (for they requested this,)
and thought,
I'll eat this, but not
happily.

And she swirled in this soup the cheesy bread,
then took it and placed it upon her
tongue, thinking,
This is pure representation of your disappointment in me:
Smouldering hot and completely unmerciful.

In the same way, she dug her nails into her wrist,
heat rising on her fingertips and
tears welling in her eyes, thinking:
This cup of soup is the last I'll consume
before I'll let loose the dam of blood

But the tongue that so swells
in unrighteousness, which betrays me every day,
is in my own mouth.
Woe be to my most loathed foe:
Myself.