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
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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!
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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!)
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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!
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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.)
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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!
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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!)
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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 . . .