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Museum Of Iscariot
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
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