AN: I do not like structured poetry . . . yet I have written a poem with an actual rhyme scheme. Criticism desired, but flames are not welcomed unless delivered maturely and cleanly. Please, do review if you read this, even if it is a few simple words of advice. I will try my best to return the review on two of your works, assuming I have knowledge of the subject.

Pontius Pilate

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Since he hath no blood lineage of we;

Bind him to the beam - slay him at once!

For neither King nor prophet clout

Will spare him from yonder tree!

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Beyond the mirage of devil tongues and grins,

The buzzing-stinging-biting of their words

Haunt the cavern hollows of my eardrums;

Thump-thump-thumping unholy demands within

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That this thumb cast the fleshy shell to South's midst

¡Oh how the roles of slave and master grimace and writhe!

From one pedestal social status of grandeur repute,

To a fractured branch tormented within a drunken mist.

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What am I to do within this soaked arena, lover?

Thee, my pillar of salt flanking my just hip-

So lovely and firm as the grand cedar tree –

Cloaked in prestige lest thy complexion uncover.

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And bathed in the glory of Roman honor and renown,

Thy body hath been dipped in the golden dust of Earth,

But lo,' my cherubic saint, thy fretting irises betray

The musky sweat upon a slayer's olive crown.

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And lo' the lungs doth not expand in fluent motion!

The pinky muscle swells as the desert delusion

Whilst tissues constrict beneath the rays of trial,

And ebbs with the tender tides of dulled emotion.

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But what misdeed hath this skeletal core –

His ribs shred asunder from the lion's tails

And naked form drenched in amethyst dye

Hath condemned Him to verve no more?

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Broken body, spare to me thy words!

Art thou the crowned Judean king of old

Who, yet hunches as the Nile's bestial creature

Held captive to illusive shackles and swords?

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And no fiery charge thee bring unto me!

¡Woe! Whilst thou not defend thyself before men?

Spare me! Release this fragment from ritual anguish

Oh! Save me from the masses' cross decree!

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Whom shall I give thee in place of the mute!

Barabbas! He who hath slain woman and babe!

Unchain the fiend amongst Jerusalem's walls;

Purge the righteous soul and gift us the brute!

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What hath thee wrongly acted, Saliva Crested One?

The stains of diminished souls do not blemish thee,

And thy hands art not covered in callous greed,

Yet, our two worlds are unweaving – coming undone.

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And thy eyes devour my own trembling stare

Whilst my dear lady spares me her urgent plea:

Release He who is without the faults of man

That such dreary dreams may loosen their snare.

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But, my hands art in the same shackles,

And they burn! Oh! How they burn my heart

In tiny perspiration droplets of clover dew

As our anxiety emerges amidst this pit of jackals.

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The heathen cloak that bears thy bloody marks

Shames we men appointed to judge thee false,

And that rosebush crown that slices thy brow

Is testament to our sinful souls so viciously stark.

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I find with thee no basis of charge to condemn;

To sentence thee to such a savage demise of spread arms.

But woe! Though I confess to them thy innocence

They plea-demand-urge that I thy blood spend!

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Oh forgive me – pardon such a wrongful man

Who believes thy tongue, yet flogs thy body,

For those who descry Caesar's loyal name

Plague my midnights with scarlet sands.

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And lo' we stand together before Stone Pavement

Gabbatha! Gabbatha! chant the walls our names and fates

Now, the sixth hour wanes amidst the roaring crowd

And I offer them thee, a king, as my sacrificial payment.

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Oh how the pupils protest such an offering before the bowl!

The vessel of tainted water that I dip my trembling palms within

Kisses the dirt as it swirls like the King's blood soon will

Be spilt before their eyes, for I, a governor, hath paid their toll!

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I am innocent of this man's noble blood!

The responsibility, I gift into thy wicked hands!

Let the blood soak us for generations of Abraham,

And our children drown in this guilty flood!

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Behold, the deed is finished, and thee hath been stolen!

Thy life I freely gave to man, and I can only weakly gaze

As thy form bares the cross along the streets I cherished,

Yet its' dusts are forever splattered from a whip sun-swollen.

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And she doth not enter my chamber any eves longer . . .

But weeps golden tears of Aphrodite within her rooms

For the man she worshiped within daydreams and whispers,

While with accusing eyes wishes his will were stronger.

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But, alas, thy soul will hang upon that timber block

And I will mourn the feeble spirit of human man

That hath not the faith to free the blameless lamb -

A king dying with the hourly crows of the stanch cock.

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And they inquire which title I shall slur thy name . . .

Behead thee ever more! Demean thy nature and few spoken words!

But nay will I obey such requests from the devil men!

And Jesus Of Nazareth, The King Of The Jews shall it exclaim!

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But he hath only claimed to be such a king, one only lying!

Thee lowly men demand that my words be swallowed whole,

But nay once more, and never again shall I deny what my heart utters!

I have written what I have written – the title of the God-Man King!