A man walks in the shadow of conviction,
silver coins cold against the warmth of his palm,
each one a small moon reflecting choices
etched deeper than the lines on his face.

His name echoes, not in triumph but in whispers,
folded into the corners of stories
where betrayal grows like vines,
tightening around memory and myth alike.

But what is a man,
if not the sum of his fears and failures,
the weight of moments when the heart
beats louder than the conscience?

In the garden,under the fragile breath of olive trees,
he pressed his lips to a friend's cheek,
an ordinary gesture,
made monstrous by the meaning sewn into it.

Was it greed,or grief?
A desire for revolution unmet,
for a Messiah that did not fit the mold
he carved in his mind?

History names him traitor,
but history forgets he was also a man
-
torn by the tension between love and disillusion,
between the hope of what could be
and the ache of what was.

Coins fall,ropes tighten,
and the story ends not with redemption,
but with silence-
the kind that lingers
long after the crowd has gone home.