Sudden as a flung moon’s rubescence, 30 pieces of silver
for that slack kiss. Its apostasy.
Derelict among the Chosen, caught napping among fishes
and loaves, He’s betrayed by the raging
crowds. He’s flayed scarlet
for their amusement. Found wanting.
Found guilty.

Without council, He combusts, unreprieved by His scald
of forgiveness, abjured by a cock
crowing 3 times.
He’s nailed, sotto voce, to an arm’s length of swelter, hung politically
incorrect among
iconoclasts.

Forget keeping up appearances. Affixed to their own trees,
a duo of bad boys claim His coat-tails
while a dazed rift of angels
lick salt
from His forehead. They must lift Him out of seismic doom,
to bloom briefly, inside the barbwire of His Father’s
plantation.

Forget forensics. He turns posthumous hustler,
while the tomb mimics
emptiness.

Millennia later, He still itches for recognition, unacknowledged
in His quest for perfection.
At the end of the day,
He’s dismayed by the outcome but furtively praying
to be smuggled
offshore.

More Poetry