Unlike Other Boys: Poems by Alan Ireland.



    The Elder

    In the shadow of this tree,
    Judas mapped his misery,

    But saw no finger-post, save one:
    A beckoning oblivion.

    So up he climbed, with labored breath,
    To where he could devise his death.

    The twisted tree, by time distressed,
    Would ratify his wretchedness,

    And let him fall – his loss complete,
    The seamless sky his winding sheet.




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