We had Hoped.

The night is long. The air is thin.

All language has turned back. Looking over its shoulder, it claims all in the past tense. Even the "ever present" One.

You were. We thought. You seemed. We followed.

You died.

A bloody masacre the contents of our trod these days.

Like a stillborn child You laid there. No breath in Your lungs. No light in Your eyes. No hope in Your life.

I mean, don't You remember? We left our nets to follow You. Our homes and families, too. We kissed our babies heads one last time and told our wives not to wait up for us. We took nothing as You instructed with the promise of sitting under Your instruction some more.

We were addicts, You could say. We went where You led. We stepped in Your prints. We ate what You broke.

But that was then.

Now is a different story. The end of the story. The finishing line.

Now, You lay buried. A bloody mess wrapped in white linen. A barren life in an erie tomb.

We came to cover the stench of Your rotting humanity with spices. This rugged stone encapsulating Your pierced body haunts us because You were. We thought. You seemed. We followed.

But You died.

And here, this tomb of despair and night, holds captive the Living among the dead.

We will despair on this territory. For there is no hope to salvage.

You were our King.

Or so we had hoped.