"have I not chosen... yet one of you..."

An old house full of gathered 
strangers become 
intimates too soon perhaps 
Pasting plastic bond of trust 
among this band --
we happy few

How quickly life unmasks our 
gentle eyes become 
a piercing gaze 
Glance lightening bolts 
Illuminating eerie still-life 
on our soulscape

Stick figures dipping bread now
at the Table where we 
hoped to gather
Finger painting portraits 
of ourselves onto each 
other-- demons

Cast one out and find returning 
haunts like blessings come 
unasked for 
Pity that the tete-a-tete for which 
we'd paid a ransom came to naught 
because we came

We -- each and all of us 
are stealer, stolen from 
victims of our victimizing 
Set our cold eyes piercing
on this hall of mirrors
set for us at Table