Matthew 7:15

I am a pretty man with whiskey 

brown eyes; my skin, warm, tan, 

the universe haloes bronze. 

My voice is siren song, 

my hands are calloused soft. 

They preach truth, how perfect 

I was, judging me oblivious to their sleuth. 

How they’d change for crumbs. 

 

When their eyes uncloud they’ll see 

me as I am. Words shroud me 

but thoughts always bow to action. 

Ill-placed fingers and suggestions will bring 

my resurrection. 

 

I’ll be a pretty man painted, cheeks 

flushed, their blood on my hands, 

the barroom finally hushed. I wonder 

what would they say as witness 

now? Would they pray, 

words dripping from my hands, pooling 

where I stand?