Quite the playwright
have I not become..
For my beloved
audience
of but a few..
My Chosen Ones.

I’ve given them
my flesh
as bread..
my blood
as circus wine.
And yet,
when I put on
my spectacles
and look outside..
I see an angry mob
with pitchforks
and with torches
lit on fire.

They come
with ill intent
to set The Tree
ablaze..
The Tree to which
The Crimson Monarch
and his few disciples
humbly pray.
Except The One..
my Judas..
by whose tender lips,
in secrecy,
I was betrayed.

I plead to you,
don’t cast your wrath
on my sweet Judas..
for, by God alone
he shall be
trialed and forgiven.
Know this, the angry mob
and him
are here to do just that..
which was
already long foreseen
and written.

To hang me
on its branches
and to burn it down
to ash and embers,
so that you may see..
I have misled you.
There is nothing sacred
hiding in The Tree.

In truth,
The God Almighty
that we worship
liveth only
in our hearts..
in you and me.
So long as
merely one of us
draws breath,
my Chosen Ones..
long live The Tree.