Museum Of Iscariot

Jesus lies dying in my bed

Companions since birth

In this stagnant dingy haunt

He has never really live.

Last night I beat him,

As he would not leave

My insane eyes stare at him,

As his wilted 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 is etched

I bandage his wounds

I kiss the face of Jesus Christ

But he is dead.



What can I do?

You've forsaken me

You called yourself messiah,

And expected me to follow

An now he lays dead,

And your 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,

The 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 recieves 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.

The rosebud sits

In the palm of your hand

As I end, this flower blossoms.