Jesus, they praised his words,
honey-filled sweetness with a burning tongue.
Christ the king, that is what mortals do,
whisper worships about his miracle works,
nobody wonders why or if they're all venom-laced lies.
Son of God, he is only a son of a preacher man,
but he makes themselves believe,
one raise of his arm, one mutter of forgiveness,
humanity's sins are relieved.
King of the Jews, his followers went into the war,
went home with blood as his wine, their bodies as his bread, trophies in the form of heads,
while the only war he fought,
he lost; it was against the demons in his head.
Messiah, they would kneel in front of him,
shadows against the fire,
submit willingly to his desire.
Saviour, this was the power bestowed upon him by his own kind,
and he really doesn't mind.
Jesus, is a sinner and perhaps the deadliest of all,
a king whose only crown made from thorns,
perhaps he was not the son of God
but a son of Hell's horns.
YOU ARE READING
caprice skies
Poetrythe impulse of my thoughts, glowing againts the blanket of stars. [lowercase intended; thoughts in the form of poetry]
