i.

She leant against the tree and turned to the messiah in his final glory;

bloody scars as a reminder of his battle with the devil,

a cigarette dangling from those holy lips.

His torn tunic hung open,

gaping holes in his palms;

a haunting memory from his days on the cross.

ii.

Did you want to save them? She said.

Her hands slipped into his.

He was cold, too cold;

as if he was dead.

iii.

But he was supposed to be,

wasn't he?

iv.

The messiah would have died if not for his father.

He wouldn't have breathed his last shaky breath without being forced to carry out his duty;

as a saviour, as a martyr.

v.

No. He responded.

That was the truth.

The people He had died saving had been the people who stoned him;

the people who brandished the crown of thorns on his head.

The messiah touched the scarred tissue.

It felt as if the crown was still there;

digging into his skull until he himself pleaded for mercy.