Like a Christ…
Twelve stations, another for good measure
One cross, that common displeasure
Social anorexia, a public bulimia
A flogging, a flaying, the massive anathema.
Push, shove, regurgitation
An eating binge at every station
Over ground, twice underground
At every destination, sign, and stop
The strong, they crowd; the weak, they drop.
One side – all sides – struck with spears
Forward! No, backward! The track clears
Quick and nimble they run, from the green to the red
Salvation, Rapture… Armageddon that lies ahead.
The bells, how they toll for the metal messiah!
The whistle, how it praises the three horsemen of Apocalyptica
No water or wine at Cana, yet pained and dying at Golgotha.
You’ll save me in a little while… in another while…
Like Christ, you’ll come again.
(You kind of think that a religious, almost blasphemous metaphor is cool if you ride the friggin’ MRT and get shoved and bruised at Araneta-Cubao. And yes, I still suck at writing poetry.)