Corona of Thorns, your spiky pictures
everyday below headline news,
you’re the tiniest army of kings,
subjugating innocent peoples.
 
Corona of Thorns,
the tiniest little Eichmanns
but you’re not “the final solution”
rather a cry, a scream for the world for healing.
 
Suddenly some strangers
care about each other’s well-being
like there is no tomorrow,
suddenly a neighbor planting flowers and vegetables
there is a natural cycle.
 
Corona of Thorns
crucifying predatory capitalism
but unlike the true rebel heartfelt Christ-consciousness
that overthrew the tables of the money changers
kingpin capitalism will not be reborn,
the karma for sticking it to the poor and those
not out to strike the Earth rich,
She already is.
 
Corona of Thorns,
destined to be stripped
of its bloody crown
so that no one can be a subject
to anyone else’s sadistic whim,
the orange-black-white butterflies
not subjects of pesticides, nor bees,
nor trees subjected to chainsaw massacres,
nor pubescent teens subjected to prostitution trafficking,
nor murdered, missing, Indigenous women
nor any woman subjects of globalist roving gangs
of rootless patriarchies,
nor elders subjected to being ignored
their hard-earned experiences left on the shelf
like a dusty book holding sacred symbols,
nor any manner of gender-bender subject
to societal abnormalities.
 
No masters and no slaves —
rather those who can master the temptations
of lording it over the earthworms,
master the temptations
of wanting to be a real-estate kingpin
wearing a Corona of Thorns
in honor of all those who perished.
 
Corona of Thorns,
your days are numbered —
the scent of wild roses
filling the nostrils, lungs,
the blesséd air.