Virtual Exhibition

My Jesus And An Alien Landscape by mark masters

mark masters

My Name Was Vengeance

The path I walked was sharp, my feet would bleed,
My tired frame with heavy cross and mouth so dry,
And high above, the cloudless sky grew dull,
I found the hill the people used to call the skull,
And there I met my host and early guest,
My blood would later stain his tiny, feathered chest,
A robin who was waiting at my Fathers last request;
And as the darkness fell, on ropes they pull,
A wooden hand-carved chalice, with vinegar stood full,
And in the playground boys would fight and start to cry,
How many Egos would my pointless death now feed.

The teacher rang the earthly bell to end the playground fight,
A beast born in the stomach of a small and frightened child,
Nature, Nurture, Love should fill the valleys of the mind,
But the desert is a lonely place, harsh and so unkind,
And what is bred? a need for greed and marching into war,
That struck deeper than we thought at the surface and the core,
And disbelieving women shook their heads and closed their doors;
The same words they would later use my trembling hands to bind,
Upon this hill and on this cross, I, knew that they would find,
Beneath my feet the skulls they bought arranged and neatly piled,
A curtain torn as shadows now engulfed the fading light.

I became the parasite that fed upon this earth,
My name was ‘vengeance’ and in Men’s hearts I lived with pride,
A Mother falling sick, her Son grows poor,
Our play is done, with empty seats, there’s no ‘encore.’
The curtain down we see some hidden clarity,
A bigger darkness falls upon our sad humanity,
To hate a ‘Love’ becomes the new insanity;
The tides then crept away and left the shore,
The sun turned black, the moon cried out now feeling sore,
Beneath the rock and root and worm we now all hide,
Shameful thorns and skin now proclaim the perfect birth.

They rolled a heavy stone to seal my view,
For days it seemed I lay upon the dusty floor,
To kill me was insipid and they didn’t do their best,
They should have ripped my beating heart as I lay down to rest,
Here in time they bow their heads to acknowledge their existence,
The frail bones and sinews of a failing self-resistance,
That rage and rage against the Devil’s sickly-sweet persistence;
And as I stood they mocked and laughed and beat me as they jest,
They tore my skin and tore my hair, that was to be my quest,
Come take my hands and look upon this vacant Holy Whore,
The rusted gates now stand ajar as you stand to join the queue.

mark masters September 2020

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