I was thinking about Easter Saturday; between the Death and Resurrection, what happened? How did the disciples feel? What was going through their minds?
This poem was the result.
Imagine it; ten men, alone in a room.
Windows covered, completely quiet. Nobody moves.
They are a failed revolution. Doomed to fade, to die as mice
Not men (and certainly not zealots). This is the fate of the dead god’s sons.
Thomas thinks it’d be better to split. Wishes he could leave.
The others won’t let him, though. They come and go in shifts.
Maybe the authorities are still watching them, following them.
They’d like to think so. It would make it all seem worthwhile…
What will they do now? Return to the nets? To the counting tables?
Preach a second-hand message? Find a new messiah?
They’d done he’d said; left everything and followed.
Followed him to the end.
Imagine it: ten men, alone in a room.
Between life and death.
At the End, before the Beginning.
We know the fate of the dead god’s sons.