Museum Of Iscariot
Jesus lies dying in my bed
Companions since birth
In this stagnant dingy haunt
He has never really lived
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 foetus
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
And now he lays dead
And your prophesies 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 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
The rosebud sits
In the palm of your hand
As I end, this flower blossoms