Watch as they don't

even dither before

they silver

the thirty pieces

they'll barter

for a sliver

of posterity, 

surrendering

their souls 

with such dexterity,

to be followed, 

of course, if caught, 

by some parody

of penitence, as they

take up residence

in the pantheon

of hypocrisy,

where all impulses

Pharisaic and prosaic

always reign, and

the ceaseless echo

is that of a

serpent's soliloquy, 

such a frequency 

of failure to atone

perceived by susceptible

ears alone...