"Then saith one of his disciples, Judas Iscariot, Simon's son, which should betray him, Why was not this ointment sold for three hundred pence, and given to the poor?" ~ John 12, King James Bible

A lock without his key. Closed at the top where Iron feeds on iron. Rain against the tavern's Threshold - memory's.

Gulls shrieking over cargo Freighters, and this esplanade, Anointed by seawater, rain, Leading from that little vortex In the middle of the lock,

Waiting for her Judas key To turn, and turn again.

My love, my saving grace, your eyes are awfully blue. I kiss your funny face, your coffee-flavored mouth. Last night I slept with you. Today I love you so how can I bear to go (as soon I must, I know) to bed with ugly death in that cold, filthy place, to sleep there without you, without the easy breath and nightlong, limblong warmth I've grown accustomed to? —Nobody wants to die; tell me it is a lie! But no, I know it's true. It's just the common case; there's nothing one can do. My love, my saving grace, your eyes are awfully blue early and instant blue.

"Burn It Blue" from the "Frida" OST