Jūan 1934


On the third day

a rose again.  

The thorns pierce  

what little I have left. 

I wear my crown  

with valor. 


An entry less wound  

that aches of which aches

twist, it’ll be something I remember.  


Inherit my blood and water. 

As a memento of my sacrifice.

And you. Our. Us.  

As it lay in the scripture.  


I offer you more than my body to feast on.  

In hopes I am clean.  


Laugh you may.  

One day.  

It will all make sense.  


In the vein

of the daughter

and of the sun. 

unholy merit