Caravaggio, The Denial of St. Peter
On the edge
hands clenched,
sad eyes downcast
bitter fear forcing tight his lips
he holds his breath
he pauses
as the angry finger
of the state
of the state
points at his throat,
hard eyes searching Peter’s
indecision
for rash conviction;
but she, she knows
has seen before
his adoring eyes, heard his
boastful voice
by the campfire
of the condemned.
Slowly he moves
toward the inevitable lie
as the bloody sun
stirs to song
the drowsy cock.
(7 June 2012)
(7 June 2012)
