His hands shapes the bread,
Kneading the flour from the wheat,
Thrashing the kernels from the chaff,
Pounding it into fine powder,
Before baking it in a fiery furnace, until...
It became me!
"Where is my salt?" I asked the Baker.
"That, you will put in yourself!" He answered.
The Master put me through a lot,
Watching closely, every step of the process,
Until I was finally ready, to feed others.
Isn't that why we are here?
The End
Go on to next poem by Mark Edgemon: Love...Is a Many Splintered Thang!
Return to: The Works of Mark Edgemon
Go on to next poem by Mark Edgemon: Love...Is a Many Splintered Thang!
Return to: The Works of Mark Edgemon
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