The Taking of Christ
The thirty silver pieces jingle in the leather pouch,
Judas plants a solitary kiss, upon the cheek of one, so alone,
The moonlight illuminating the worried frowns,
The ghoul like hollow face of a scream, “Lord”,
A sudden cold evening with cloaks of burnished orange,
Earthen brown and more indistinguishable shades of uncut
Blue grass, lighter or darker depending on the direction
Of the intermittent wind and the quantity of light
Which the flaying fabric absorbs, silken material flashing,
Clashing with the tarnished bronze and brass breastplates,
Arms outstretched, words exchanged between friend and
Friend and friend and foe, “oi’s” abound, confusion reigns,
All the time a background obscured with no focal depth,
Who hides in that darkness? Look closer, stinking breath is all.
Illuminated foreground as though the Son himself was outshone.
His face, all the fallibilities of a mortal being, bile ascending
Spital descending, “Father, give me courage”, aware of
The preordained fated outcome of a solitary kiss.
© David Philips
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