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
an 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.