Table for two

It was my handiwork.
I had wedged a pencil
into my corner of the table.
The ugly sunmica gaped
like an alligator and I would
close its jaw whenever 
an unwary ant would enter 
looking for scattered morsels.
I enjoyed playing God, 
taking life out of them.

Sometimes, I could hear
Father's footsteps arriving
and his fragmented, bent
shadow on the floor.
My heart would skip 
a thousand beats,
as I would swiftly 
hide the pencil and
at other times I couldn't.
Most days he would just
smile, but sometimes
he would ruffle my hair too.
And on those days I wondered,
why He had never repaired 
our crumbling ant infested table
in all these years? 

Picture: Some rights reserved by miliokas

The Last Supper

Leaves fear falling,
on paths men tread.
They kill each other
for butter and bread.

They shed not one
of their own blood.
What seeps from swords
and soaks the mud,

Are tears of widows,
children orphaned,
of waning mothers,
a God who's shunned.

When the last of men,
will have thrust his steel,
I'll have my supper,
My very last meal.