Museum Of Iscariot: I. Stagnation / Ii. Death

Jesus lies dying in my bed

Companions since birth...

in this stagnant dingy haunt

he never really lived.

Last night I beat him as he would not leave

My insane eyes stare at him as his welted body bleeds

Frequently I rape him as I know nothing else

He curls up like a fetus and paints his face with sadness

Now a fragment of remorse has etched

I bandage his wounds, I kiss the face of Jesus Christ but he is dead

What can I do?

You have forsaked me, called yourself messiah, expected me to follow

But now he is dead and his prophecies with him

I will bury him not as insult to your face

as I stare at his corpse one detail disturbs me

His cold stark finger points where I have not been...

From my house, a cage of rotten wood

I stumble forth to lay beneath the bush

withered bones groan,

I cultivate as the soil and I grow closer

The sun receives an empty gaze

it mourns

it knows my life is gone

No more to offer but my flesh to this soil

and a single tear marks my final prayer

a rosebud sits in the palm of your hand as I end

this flower

it blossoms