I’ll be your Judas, lined up on the wall. I’ll be the wing man taking the fall. I’ll be your realist, pummelled to dust. I’ll be your Judas thrown under the bus. The hated one that breaks the news, there’s only two rooms in your Father’s house, both filled like a fountain with expired wishful thoughts. It’s not your hell or heaven to cast me to, to promise or threaten. For mine is the void, the Kingdom of Nothing. As above, so below. Both sides of the curtain. All malice and power and scraps for the faithful. You can swallow crosses to the hilt, swallow narratives greased up with guilt - but you can’t pray your way clear of the gnawing doubt. So I’ll be your Judas, wrecking the shot. Excised from the final cut. Written out of Glory. The cynic at the gates that any god worth their salt could appreciate. I’ll be your Judas. You’re gonna need some realist. I'll be your Judas. You're gonna need some realist