The Last Supper
Asleep,
With fur like a cloudy sky,
That slowly sifts to paws trudging through snow,
Gently purring a hymn of content,
While whiskers and his tuft of tail twitch,
As if reliving his last kill.
Awake,
His eyes split the clouds,
To reveal fields of grain and grass.
Power condensed into hunger,
Wanders into the kitchen temple,
Giving praise and alms,
To the box of waves,
Following the sacrifice to the alter,
Paws growing, claws reaching,
To steal my heart and chicken wings.
Today,
The clouds met concrete,
For the sun straddled my shoulders,
Upon discovery,
Blood and tears combined,
And flowed out
To quench the pavement.
