The Ideology of Her Final Supper
By Peter Scott
Blood streams down her head
Pooling in puddles of red
While she sits in a distant realm
Alone
Remorse and spelling silent tears
Using the trickle from the domain of fears
Faint are the symbols
Spread thin
In a patch of overshadowed terrain
Previous pleas too subtle
Essence rests still
She has slaved beyond the passage of retreat
Overtaxed the soul
Does not defend
Her atrophying remains
Moves not an inch
Fluid draining from her cheeks
Dying the synthetic shag
A deep hue of concentrated blue.
