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| Istanbul's Skyline |
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| A beautiful young woman |
The crazed painter dips his brush
into the hues of his squalid mind.
He pours his twisted visions onto the temple walls—
putrid green to drown the lamb,
red and black for the demons dancing on the towers.
My love for The Son of Man
and Christianity as a way of life is infinite, however, I find it impossible to
believe in a metaphysical world.
This poem is my own personal view of God, Jesus, and Mary Magdalene. Please do
not continue reading if you are easily offended or intolerant of other peoples'
views.
This poem is largely inspired by the novel 'The Last Temptation of Christ' by Nikos Kazantzakis.
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| Mary Magdalene |
My Lord, my life is yours. Since I was a little girl, I’ve lived for the day you’d come.
When I was but thirteen, and you fifteen, both almost children, your gaze sealed my fate. You held my hand and spoke strange words I'd never heard before, words I would never hear again. Then you pressed your lips on mine! I kissed you back, a child's kiss—innocent and chaste—yet we both sensed we had crossed forbidden boundaries. You caressed my hair, our lips met once more, and in a daze, you breathed in the fragrance of my aching breasts.
Consumed by fear, you fled—a trembling soul possessed—stumbling and collapsing. I wiped your brow and cleansed your mouth, yet each time you quivered like a startled dove. I wept and beseeched Him to release you, but Jehovah, a cruel and jealous God, ignored my child’s pleas.
Seven sins came riding from afar across the Galilee knocking on my father's door. He cursed me, told me I was the bride of Lucifer, and commanded me to leave his house.
Since then, a red light burns in my window, and countless men defile my body night and day. I lie on my soiled bed in this room of shame with my face to the wall, feigning love’s cries—a love without love. Bites and scratches mar my flesh, and my tattered scarlet gown, always open to all the colours of the world, forever reeks of the stench of shameful sex. I search for you my Lord each night in all the insatiable mouths and in all the vile hands crawling on my thighs and breasts, and even though each morning I scrape and bathe in myrrh, the smell of paid-for sex still lingers in the air.
My Lord, all the nations of this earth have passed through my bed. I’m tormented, scorned, and shamed. I'm abused and always sold to the highest bidder, yet I'm still that little girl, unsullied by any man, waiting to be your beloved bride.
And
now, you knock on my door, and you walk in with downcast eyes blushing like a
virgin. You bleat like a lamb and call me sister, you say my shame is your
shame and you tell me you want to save me. But tonight, I don't want sainthood
or your God. Put out the red light, fall into my bed, and save my flesh. My
soul will not tarry far behind.
