"deranged," they mutter as the man walks down the cobblestone sidewalk. his feet move hurriedly as he is late. he doesn't know what to, but he is late.
"he's gone mad, hasn't he?" people shield their children's eyes from the man, hoping they don't catch anything strange from him. still the man walks onwards, anxiety oozing from him.
the man sways as he walks-drunk. the man chuckles nervously. drunk on the idea of love. the man giggles now, hysterically laughing. the man is fine looking. but people will still murmur.
"why, he's bleeding!" a woman cries, her hand over her mouth. the man stops walking even though he is late. people stare at him and soon he looks down to the stoney walkway.
the man looks at his hands. his hands are not bleeding. his wrists are. he sees a nail sticking into his wrist, right between the two bones. the man winces at the sight, but feels no pain. in his other wrist is the same thing. in his ankles, the same. suddenly, the man feels a sharp pain from his head. his fingers slowly reach and touch a spike. he feels thorns. delicately, the man lifts a crown of thorns from his head.
the man breaks down to the floor and weeps.
the people surround him. they don't smile. they don't speak. but they've got stones in their hands. the man doesn't plea, for he loses his breath as bruises blossom on his skin decorated with the blood of christ.
r.k.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Meathead Monologue
PoesíaI wanted everyone and everything; all the time and all at once. [volume ii] [poetry and prose] [2017-2019]
