Man, Pureé and Apple Pie

I find a man oddly comparable to a bowl of rustic vegetable pureé,
or to a sloppily cut slice of a classic apple pie,
what difference is there?

Since harvest, all were collected, selected and piled, observed and judged,
Stripped and peeled and cored and cut,
Salted and drowned we must, with sour, sweet, and rather bitter spice,
Before then thrown into a furnace of flame.

At dinner, people gather round the table,
Hand-in-hand saying grace.
'Grace?'
Man search for grace round the table,
But grave—not grace—was what man found.

For as often as grace dances a hideous waltz,
As it hides under the veil of suffering,
Love shall sing an uneasy tune,
Chained in a chair, forced into a confession.

But alas! See the Man being passed around,
In the dining table that last supper,
To quench the thirst of many,
'He' was grace grief could not stand before.