He returns his thirty silver
Coins with remorse,
But it is too late for Him.
His eyes are swollen
From crying and dying,
Black circles
Surrounding his fate.
The hour is getting late.
I’ll eat this date

He ponders in time and space:
The river would be a good place
To fill my pockets with stones—
They’ll never find my bones
Or one thrust of a knife
Surely that will take my life.
I could swallow some poison
And lose all vision
Or hang from this tree . . .

Posted in Perspective, Poetry