Just Another Jesus.

I watch the television screen, like a
morbid child I wait in wonder at the
justice to be broadcast.

He's a tyrant, a monster.
He deserves to feel the
rough rope around his neck.

I remember, I recall.
I was seven. An axe, an axe murderess.
A shiny needle, a line of mercurial silver and
they let her life go like a flock of birds
into the setting sky.

I cried, I cried for her death but not
whom she had murdered. I was scolded.
I felt the course slap across the face and
the stinging tears that followed.

The philosophy of this phosphorous triumph
of our "brave boys". Not again, not again.
They portray a nursery rhyme punishment.

"Hang from the gallows, sweet dictator.
Let death be your final comfort, damned traitor."
The children sing like the drumming of the soldiers,
each bitterly in tune.

The drop of his body against the backdrop of
civil war. What an anthem!

But too late I realise, too soon I recognise
that this television is a mirror.
Each one to each of us. We hang him under the
shabby guise of freedom, when we are killing our
own guilt. He is just another Jesus.

Only, not walking on water,
but blood. He is no saint.

There is no such thing!