ďFallenĒ by Walter W. Quinn III

 

It was a day no one saw coming.

He fell from the sky, amongst the ground the rain was drumming.

Not one person saw where he came from.

No buildings around were tall enough, not a plane in the sky. Clouds, some.

 

Someone screamed. They had their first glimpse of that ethereal corpse.

His clothes whirled in the air, his beard, white with age, wind warps.

His eyes were closed. Body limp. Hands that Created now immobile.

But this One personís last fall was the beginning of a crisis, global.

 

Both believers and those that didnít began to gather,

Drawing in a circle near where he would land, but rather

Than the speedy mess they expected to encounter He

Had fallen without a sound and now laid there for all to see.

 

Despite this great trauma, his body was perfect

Just as He was. Some even expected (wished?) for him to stand erect.

But before their eyes, their celestial divinity began

To rewind in life, age, story of this old man.

 

His eyes played the history

Of everyone. Everything. Everywhere. And this mystery

That was this fallen deity, was now becoming clear

As civilization saw their divine murder weapon, fear.

 

Battles, war and death of peoples of every place,

The absolute look of horror on His face

Told them what they had done was nothing close to what

He had wanted, created in his image.

 

It seemed, however, that those things that were good,

Like love, kindness and happiness, for which He stood,

Were not enough to balance out what we had made,

And this sickness that was us, to His neck, a blade.

 

Murmurs arose from the crowd,

Their connected fear growing loud,

And as they turned towards each other, and they began to pray,

His body, into the earth, melted away.