There he sat,


Long sharp fingers drawing circles

In a bowl of water

Not so holy.

Voices of men echoed

Through his halls

Mild obscenities etched into his gold throne

Inquiries of a son

Of a figure without a body

And demands for his bloody end

There sat Pilate

Withdrawing his hand from the water

Not so holy,

Wanting to wash his hands in it

And to no longer be entwined

In such an unearthly confusion


Who said "yes" in hesitation

To the sadists that filled his city walls

Watched nonchalantly

With no emotion

And with overflowing regret

As he watched the last ounce of his dignity

Die with the man of Nazareth

There stood Pilate

Knowing well

That not every royal decision

Was the right one.