|Just a Poor Man in a Potter's Field
Author: Astarte's Rapture PM
Judas . . . how thee have fallen!Rated: Fiction T - English - Tragedy/Horror - Words: 290 - Reviews: 10 - Favs: 7 - Published: 02-09-06 - Status: Complete - id: 2793278
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
AN: I am aware that it was silver and not gold. Midnight sympathies . . . and another poem with rhyme. Please review. Just a Poor Man in a Potter's Field -
Just a Poor Man in a Potter's Field
Feed me the money – slay me with the gold,
Melt the coins within these steaming hands
Whilst a palpitating heart pumps frozen cold -
My calloused feet are running on foreign lands!
A heart that is broken – s h a t t e r e d apart
(I betrayed a holy king from the heavens above . . .
Bruised him with kisses and bled his heart-
I killed the holy man blessed by the sacred dove!)
And the serpent hisses . . . just one more time
You thieved a pious life at redemption's saintly price
Dangle yourself above the rocks – choke beneath the twine -
Turn your gamble into ghosts and throw down the dice!
The fallen children call me to a field of ravens
(screaming madly until my eardrums bleed – break
Make the vile voices cease their cries of manly craven-
. . . may the ruby eyes fade when I ne'er wake.)
And the visions pierce my hip with spears of shame,
Chanting ¡Hosannas! with airy hell-lit palm ferns.
These cackling children weave within their horrid game,
Painting liquid flowing holes within my wrists that burn!
My body is quaking in such an anxious fit of comatose
(And His eyes flood the blazed caverns of conviction
Buried deep within this grave of a lunatic's morose
. . . the cock, it crows – my neck I offer in saving crucifixion!)
Feed me the money – bury me with the gold,
Melt them within these bleeding, thieving hands
Whilst a palpitating heart freezes in the grave's cold,
And spell with Caesar's face - This is a Traitor's Land . . .