number thirty-two.

And I imagined a Jesus,
drenched in the blood of our daughters,
lifting, among the dead, the heart of a pig to find the light that used to shine.

This Jesus with a heart that beat with vigor in his own pulsating hand,
wondering if he would ever be saved, to reach the holy land
and the safety he may have known,
or perhaps the personal hell which he had created.

Either way, he waited, patiently,
standing among the dead,
the diaphanous dead,
dripping with the blood of our daughters, the innocence which we once knew,
and the naive suggestions upon their lips that we savored.

They surrounded him as he patiently waited,
breaking, slowly, pensively,
to reach a state of emptiness that was full of everything he could possibly loathe.

The dead that surrounded him, he hated.
The heart he held in his hand, he hated.
He hated the life which he had created,
the life which he had molded from the sacrificed stars of the heavens,
which morphed willingly into something new.
Something new, yet something doomed and damned from the beginning.
A well oiled malfunctioning machine.
Destined for destruction.
And so he cried.


27-10-09


L.