A friend was the one he betrayed,
His suicide greatly delayed,
As Judas waited patiently,
For his lord to come and set him free,
But his prayers would always lack response,
Despite listening for each nuance,
His guilt was written, fixed in stone,
From the moment he went out alone,
To betray by his lord’s request,
An appeal not in the least in jest,
His friends faced him not anymore,
From despair his tasks had had in store,
So he fled from the land across river and fjord,
Lest Peter lash out and die by the sword.
He wrote his part in history,
Based purely on his master’s plea,
Haunted by Christian scrutiny,
For what had become his destiny,
He knew infamy was soon to come,
So he made plans for his sins undone,
To be cast out with his pain and strife,
Away from his promised afterlife.
Who was to say if it was a lie?
How could anyone know and much less I?
Was there nothing else more for him to say,
Now his own hand took his life away?
He thought about a spring in bloom,
Promised himself he’d be there soon,
But as life faded from his eyes,
He dreamed he heard a thousand cries,
Screams of doubt at what he knew,
Could it be this gospel was untrue?
He saw death come before his eyes,
And knew at once he’d swallowed lies,
His precious life was henceforth sapped,
As his mind struggled hard to adapt,
To the thought that he had fallen so far,
Only then to realise what humans are.
Mortality struck as sanity fell,
Iscariot fled to no heaven or hell,
But one with the earth he let himself go,
And in a few hundred years new plants they did grow,
His gift of life was premature no doubt,
But by the end of his life he could rest without,
The fear of what judgement lay waiting beyond,
When instinct could tell him through forest and pond,
That life was no straight line with a fork in the road,
But a cycle fed by what leads stars to explode,
The universe gave a gift to the this man,
And though wasting that gift was not his own plan,
He wished that perhaps he had given some thought,
To the earth underfoot and the lessons it taught.