the slaughter of the King

Made in His image,
crafted,
formed,
warm moist breath that hoved over the void in a long puff as a gentle wind fills dift-caked flesh.

muscle, tendon
love, and fear join together and stand

new eyes behold the face of the King,
and run...

and turn on each other
in murder
in theft
they beat their young,
sell their women for lustful desires
steal food from the weak, the sickly

they mock the hand that pulled them from the earth
...and spit on his face
     ...and made him a crown of thorns
          ...and placed him on the alter and killed the lamb of life

and his last words...
forgive them?
yes, forgive them...