When I was reading this to a group at the museum, next to the painting I had based it off of, the curator insisted that my poem was not from Jesus's point of view. I don't know why she did that; it wasn't her poem! Haha, but I'm here to tell you that I intentionally wrote it from his eyes. This is a poem, however, so view it in any form you wish. (; Enjoy. Please review.
-Mistro
~.~.~.~.~.~.
A painting of this moment won't seem beautiful.
If the painting were my mind. A cluttered mess.
Volatile precipice.
She wears a 'Tour De Force' scarlet piece.
Grandiose, Stunning, seemingly Untouchable on her moss painted pathway.
Paradoxical.
She does not understand. Tumultuous. Yet she wishes.
Bordering our living bodies are the trees- tangled, dying, breathing, dying, dead.
Thoughts are running through living, flowing, nervous, knowing heads.
Almost Serene.
Water is spilling through my fingers. Feeling like a cure.
As I clench my hand, I watch it creep and then recoil. Like a sponge.
I taste it. Cool, matching the humid air. Tropical sensation.
I hear it. Dripping from the cracks on the well, dropping onto the stone. A silence followed, ruined by brothers.
Vines, Dirt, Moss, Leaves, Humidity are all jealous racers to my nose.
Her perfume mocks them all. A smell I will not accept.
I snap back.
I see no water.
I am tired with my thoughts and my body. Confined. I have Achilles' heel, but I cannot show it.
Sometimes I am tired of humans. Their unjust emotions and tactics.
We're a very glorified race.
Travels have made me seen much.
Little, has there been splendor in things.
Not even I.
