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
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