On the road to Calvary,
a crown of thorns wedged
upon his thorny brow,
barbed tale wilted,
he disfavored us all
with a long-suffering stare.
He was a mere child
when it came to pain.
As we drove the nails
through his callused palms
he let loose with a growl
of obscenities that soon
turned to piteous screams.
His musculature writhed
with exaggerated tension.
As the blood drained
from his many wounds,
his scaled crimson hide
began to fade to salmon,
to the splotchy coral pink
of delicately boiled shrimp.
In death he was colorless.
Dull white as an old sheet.
Foul white as the maggots
that swarmed to feast
upon his decaying flesh.
We expected the heavens
to part with blinding light
and a clear proclamation
of our apocalyptic glory.
The sun remained veiled.
The skies stayed gray
with the silent threat
of rain that never rained.
We expected the balm
of goodness to anoint
all of our lasting days.
But little has changed
that we can acclaim.
Taste is less defined.
The pleasure in our
pleasures has failed.
Now we wait, the blood
sluggish in our veins,
the nights ever chill,
for evil to revive and
reanimate our tale.
With bated hearts
and souls gone pale
we anticipate the call
of his coming Resurrection,
the horripilating wail
of his maculate Ascension.
First appeared in Weird Tales.
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