A True False Messiah

The reality of your leaving has sunken in,

like the knife you planted in my skull.

Like a flower full of death,

blooming in the crown of blood on my head.

My crown of thorns is made of barbed wire.

It stays on much better than its organic  cousin.

My brains and lungs fall out like my tongue.

My corpse has become rotted and stiff,

like the broom of a witch in a coven.

You may have done this to dozens of others,

But a true false messiah is who you have crucified,

  

         brother.