I set out
that tired Friday night
to drink my share of wine
so that I might silence
the sorrows and suffering
of my mind.
Dreams of empty bottles
haunted me as my red tinged sweat
connected the blood stains on my
bare mattress.
I saw the face of Christ
in the overlapping remnant
of past pains.
His features were full of judgement
and anger, mouth cast into a stern line
of hatred.
I considered the idea that he was made
of the sweat from last night and the stains
form the women I had fucked,
the wine and blood of God
had formed the judgmental visage of
the Savior of mankind and I alone beheld the beauty
of our shared sorrows.
Wine soaked Christ
