Jesus lies dying in my bed 

Companions since birth...

in this stagnant dingy haunt 

he never really lived.

Last night I beat him as he would not leave

My insane eyes stare at him as his welted 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 has etched

I bandage his wounds, I kiss the face of Jesus Christ but he is dead 

What can I do? 

You have forsaked me, called yourself messiah, expected me to follow

But now he is dead and his prophecies with him 

I will bury him not as insult to your face 

as I stare at his corpse one detail disturbs me 

His cold stark finger points where I have not been... 

From my house, a 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 receives 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 

a rosebud sits in the palm of your hand as I end

this flower 

it blossoms