3Then Judas, which had betrayed him, when he saw that he was condemned, repented himself, and brought again the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and elders, 4Saying, I have sinned in that I have betrayed the innocent blood. And they said, What is that to us? See thou to that.
5 And he cast down the pieces of silver in the temple, and departed, and went and hanged himself.
6And the chief priests took the silver pieces, and said, It is not lawful for us to put them into the treasury, because it is the price of blood.
7And they took counsel, and bought with them the potter’s field, to bury strangers in.
8Wherefore that field was called, The field of blood, unto this day.
Matthew 27: 3 – 8 KJV
18 Now this man purchased a field with the reward of iniquity; and falling headlong, he burst asunder in the midst, and all his bowels gushed out.
19 And it was known unto all the dwellers at Jerusalem; insomuch as that field is called in their proper tongue, Aceldama, that is to say, The field of blood.
To reach her depths, he displayed devoted patience, loving her with every breath; And on the ninetieth day she released, fell into arms, and wept in his caress; kissing him — with tears, she accepted his love, and gave of herself.
On that day I bitterly wept, Crying for you, before and after You took your last breath. Now as the winter approaches, I look at your pictures And hold you in my caress; Sitting in cold darkness, I kiss you, and whisper to you In lovingness. The agony of my soul Is let out in wailing — And with every breath. Deep crimson rose petals fall On sentimental pictures, Coming to rest. I am overcome with emotion. I cry for you. I cry for myself.
They laugh in gluttonous euphoria while the poor and disenfranchised cry out in the purgatory of agony. Their decadence is displayed and celebrated unabashedly. The scent of them, is the odor of dried blood and bile on worn money. They hide behind the red cloak of stature, but they are fickle and cowardly. With discolored teeth and diseased gums, they speak falsehoods flawlessly, from lying tongues. To maintain preeminence they would go to any lengths; The suffering of the destitute is their strength. From the upper crust, they offer crumbs and foment division, laughing, while concealing reprehensible intentions. Even in death, they would not be worthy of mention. They lack moral compass from their very inception. The tools of their game are, immorality, depravity, and deception. The souls of them, are darkened and scarred with the cirrhosis of wickedness. From their bowels, come the sewerage of vile and abhorrent utterances; They are unscrupulous, and employ slight of hand in their practices. They are parasitical in nature, slowly draining their vulnerable hosts unawares; They secretly scoff at the deep pain of others, shielding their hideous scowls with insincere tears.
The vileness of their hearts are the foul utterances of their mouths and the unbridled wickedness of their actions. With every breath they are condemned, and with every movement of the hand the filth of their souls is revealed. The pain they have inflicted on others for so many years is now turned inward, as they rot from the inside out. They will seek mercy but there will be none; They will say, I have changed, and now see my error, but no one will believe them. They will offer gifts, prostrating themselves with tears, but will be reviled and spat upon. Their names will be bywords for mockery and excoriation. They will not have a moment’s peace, or one second for reflection. There will be no reprieve, even in their mourning. In their dreams they will hear the voices of their victims, decrying them, over and over again. The torment of their purgatory will never end. The path of their destruction will be remembered even unto the fourth and fifth generations. The stories of their mercilessness and unbridled treachery will be passed down and never die.
Those passionate utterances in every breath; That first sensual kiss and the emotions you felt; The healing you find in the giving of yourself; The strength you found when you thought you had nothing left; The tranquility of a newborn in the cradle of his mother’s breasts; The joy of a father recording his daughter’s first steps; The tears of joy when the one you love reaches your depths; The warmth of your body in sweet caress; The roses given that express tenderness; The whispering of three words that bring oneness.
The words she whispered linger in the place she wept. Clutching a picture of her parents, she contemplated for several minutes, drained, with nothing left. Her tears fell on the glass picture frame that she held in silent lament. In her last agony, she spoke softly, in faint breaths. Lying down in a white nightgown, she closed her tearful eyes, and slept.
When I was a child, I thought if I stared at my mother’s pictures for hours and weep, I could bring her back from her eternal sleep. I joined the ranks of the motherless children who rode their bicycles in the night, in tears, with their mother’s memory still in them. An only child, I witnessed the pain in my grandmother’s eyes; the agony she carried from the loss of her children. She told me long held secrets before her transition; in my young body and receptive mind, I sat quietly and intently listened. Early in her marriage she had suffered a miscarriage, and through her life, she had endured tremendous damage. That evening I became a man; holding back my own tears, she knelt and wept, and let out all the pain of the years. I took my grandmother’s hand — and kissed her, and held her, and told her that she had become my mother, and that she was all I had, and that I loved her. In those moments nothing else in the world mattered; and on that night, oh that precious night, I swore an oath to myself in a small room under the heavens, that I would die to protect her, and stored that night in the depths of my soul, so I could always remember.