Virgin Black
Museum Of Iscariot
Jesus lies dying in my bed Companions since birth...
in this stagnant dingy haunt he never really lived.
Last night I beat him as he would not leave
My insane eyes stare at him as his welted body bleeds Frequently I rape him as I know nothing else
He curls up like a fetus and paints his face with sadness Now a fragment of remorse has etched
I bandage his wounds, I kiss the face of Jesus Christ but he is dead What can I do? You have forsaked me, called yourself messiah, expected me to follow
But now he is dead and his prophecies with him I will bury him not as insult to your face as I stare at his corpse one detail disturbs me His cold stark finger points where I have not been... From my house, a cage of rotten wood
I stumble forth to lay beneath the bush withered bones groan, I cultivate as the soil and I grow closer The sun receives an empty gaze it mourns it knows my life is gone No more to offer but my flesh to this soil
and a single tear marks my final prayer a rosebud sits in the palm of your hand as I end
this flower it blossoms
From Letras Mania