Sunday, June 20, 2010


He knew it was the right time. He had planned this for a hundred sunsets. “Take this cup as a sign of my blood,” he said, handing to each of his men a few ounces of holy water that streams in his veins. “Do this in memory of me,” he pleads. And they drank from the cup. On the floor they dropped and in a blink they woke up to find themselves crucified on sycamore wood. They called out the name of their creator but heard no answer.


Rhodge said...

I'm trying to group together these short poems, will try to form an arc.
Will try to answer some of my Qs using the other short poems.

GLIP said...

About abandonment ba 'to? Or deception?

f. jordan said...

@Rhode: Actually, I planned of doing that.

@Glip: It's up to your interpretation. I think it would be much richer if it encourages branches upon branches of differing thoughts.