The Judas Flower

who is truly king

.
.

I close my eyes,
to a yellow sun,
from a scarlet rose,
to a crimson mum.

I turn my head,
I'm not so proud,
to sow the seeds,
of a mushroom cloud.

I cut my hands,
as I pull the weeds,
of all the thorns,
that disagree with me.

I will not breath,
the stench and rot,
the compost pile,
of forget me knots.

I cover my ears,
when I get wind of,
the peace plants rustle,
or the white doves song.

I refuse to walk,
in the garden of life,
without a kero can,
or a sharp bone knife.

I'll swing my arm,
with a sickle blade,
I'll show your god,
he must behave.

I laugh out loud,
as we nail his son,
to a wooden cross,
to wear a sharp thorn crown.

I will whisper war,
in his church bells ring,
so his children see,
who is truly king.