I was the only one aware
That we came not from the hand of god
But of the cinders of former worlds
And ours too was to go
So amid my brothers I feasted
At the right side of he whom I sold
And they were told what was to come
Yet they didn’t know
And he thought he knew what was to come
Yet he didn’t know
We feasted on our past sins
As though that would undo their guilt
And conclude my sentence
Ultimately, that Thursday
He accomplished nothing at all
Then they went into the garden of silent contemplation
He, to commute with his delusions
They, to sleep in the mud like the pigs they were
I remained watchful
Later they spoke of me as a regretful wretch
They wanted that to be true
But I remained watchful
Relishing the imminence of
The harvest of
My treason
See, I am to them much more than they admit
Much more than a traitor
I am a Herald
Awoken he was by the footsteps of armored harvesters
Bringers of fate
Formed of the same cinders as he whom I sold
His heart was lit by the flame of faith
In the Father
But Father was not a father
And the immolation not vain
That flame constituted his downfall
A thousand or two years later
They tell me
A disciple of Judas
That I must repent
That there is no life without god
…In that instance we are all dead
To no detriment, too
For non-existence is far more peaceful
In a shadowy corner of the vast nothingness
Away from all those c*nts
