In my dreams he is God’s son, embraced in the leafless branches of an oak tree, motionless and dim. His vessel hangs as if just born, ropes feeding of his sacred flesh. I stand beneath him lips parched in prayers of blessed history retold, kisses upon his cold feet, blood from his fresh wounds mingling with my saliva.
But I am too eccentric in my beliefs; the crown of thorns bleeds my forehead.Stripping myself of earthly possessions, I rip through my bare chest till color, poisonous and ill pours.
I slice until I’m clean. I repent until he commands.
Some may recognize this from Goya’s Great Deeds Against The Dead. It is The Disasters of War Plate 39. I took the liberty of taking the central figure for this piece. Original here: http://www.eeweems.com/goya/great_deeds.html