The Last Supper

He moved like silk, a shadow thin,

With hollow eyes and paper skin.

His hands were pale, his smile tight,

A mask of bone in candlelight.

-

"Your table’s set, the feast prepared,“

His voice was dust, his teeth were bared.

The guests all laughed, their glasses raised,

Blind to the void that met his gaze.

-

The soup was thick as clotted blood,

The bread was damp with graveyard mud.

The meat still twitched, it softly moaned,

A thing half-eaten, yet full-grown.

-

A woman screamed—a sound cut short,

Her tongue had turned to writhing cords.

A man stood up, but found no feet,

Just splintered bones where legs should meet.

-

The lights burned out, the walls dissolved,

A starving dark that ate and crawled.

The waiter hummed, his fingers cracked,

As time itself began to black.

-

One by one, the guests went blind,

Their skin peeled back, their mouths unlined.

The stars above let out a wail,

As galaxies began to pale.

-

The world collapsed, a shattered plate,

A meal devoured by hands of fate.

And in the black, where none could see,

The waiter whispered…

"Dessert is me."