THE
TOURNEY
Two black-robed judges are huddled as one,
as if it were a Halloween or a passion play.
I relive their juices and laugh at their silly ways.
Mad-man, mad-man, it is Passion Week, and
someone is soon to be murdered, to die.
'Truth? What is Truth?' Now where have I
heard that before? I was, myself, once
trundled along the sandstone steps of
some ancient temple almost new, carried
along by the jeers of the crowd, everyone
did what they wanted. Bayonets and lances,
toga-clad centurions, a fake doctor and some
Pharisees jeering at me. Along with the rest,
they acted like shit; taking me down a notch
when I was already at bottom. 'Son of God?
What's that you say? Son of God? You
too deserve to die, lost among your
Father's fleeting words and ways.'
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