The Elder
In the shadow of this tree,
Judas mapped his misery,
But saw no finger-post, save one:
A beckoning oblivion.
So up he climbed, with labored breath,
To where he could devise his death.
The twisted tree, by time distressed,
Would ratify his wretchedness,
And let him fall — his loss complete,
The seamless sky his winding sheet.
Copyright © Alan Ireland | Year Posted 2017
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment