That night, the cock denied him thrice.
His mother and the whore downloaded him,
nails etched into his palms,
his thorny forehead glistening,
his body speared.
He wanted to revive unto their moisture.
But the nauseating scents of vinegar
and Roman legionnaires,
the dampness of the cave,
and then that final stone…
His brain wide open,
that was to have been his last.
He missed so his disciples,
the miracle of their kisses.
He was determined not to decompose.
Hemmed in our bed,
in moist propinquity,