Aceldama
By craig2
Crusts of prophecy spoil on leavened lips, water turns to sour wine. Temple priest’s pennies silver, need to own, betray, to crucify. Brick-dead hardened soil in barren potter’s field refuses to renew, absorb blood and brains bursting to frantic thunder pooling in a serpent stench. Lone, angel nurtured tree stark against apocalyptic sky has grown with devil knotted limb, lured the keeper of the coin, kissed Judaen bowels that gush about. Written December 22nd, 2001 © on Mar 07 2002 11:10 PM PST 0 • 10
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"Crusts of prophecy..."