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Virgin Black
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Museum of Iscariot: Stagnation / Death / Procession
Jesus lies dying in my bed
Companions since birth
In this stagnant dingy haunt
He has never really live.
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 fetus,
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 prophecies with him
I will bury him not,
As insult to your face.
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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 recieves 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.
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