THE BLOODY HANDS OF ISCARIOT

Forty pieces of silver has it’s allure.
For sure, it could have bought enough
to feed a few and briefly ease their suffering.
But what you were offering was worth so much more.
I see that now. Too late, too late.
You always talked about your Father’s will,
but nobody asked me what I wanted.
I wanted to stay and finish my meal.
I wanted to die in the oldness of my age.
I wanted you to be my Brother throughout.
And what I’ve found out won’t change things.
Instead, we fought. I abandoned you.
I betrayed you. Sold you for some pocket change.
And in the end, you were beaten and broken.
Without words spoken, our eyes met and
every opportunity for a second chance
died, nailed to that tree. But I did not see.
Not then; not now. Blood money leaves
a nasty stain on beloved hearts.
I would have changed if I could,
but my fate was predicated,
and vermin like me are easily convinced.
In the end, we’re all left hanging.
Does forgiveness come at the end of one’s rope?

Walt

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