Betrayal

It seems even God Himself could not forgive
plunging Iscariot into that inner most circle
confirming for all what Hamlet had to learn
the dearer the hand, the sharper the blade
 
Still, I should be of a thicker skin
to deflect or shatter such daggers
or at least not let them wound me so
as I writhe reeling backwards once again  
 
Sadly, the greatest pain I now feel
is the wisdom that trust is fragile
like a sacred writing in stubby pencil
partially removed by a smudging eraser
 
It sits high on the wall as a testiment
to my vulnerability and foolishness
a twisted graffiti partly by my own hand
left to haunt and mock me whenever I pass
 
But, silly as this may actually sound  
though I've lost count of all the scars
I always return to the dusty well of faith
lowering my desperate pale into its depths
 
For I don't want this veneer of jade
for while it protects me from all hurt
it also blocks the warming sun from my skin
denying the cool breezes of summer nights
 
So, whether masochist or saint, or both
I reemerge again renewed and hopeful
without my armor but with my toolbelt
to go and apprentice forgiveness in Gethsemane