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 forsaken 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