The preacher's son had a small hobby
of nailing birds to the side of the barn.
Watching them twitch and stutter,
blood seeping through the rotten wood,
reminded him of the fragility of life.
He felt like God.
Where his ideation of crucifixion came from remains a mystery,
hidden in the messy scribbles in the margins of his bible,
scratched parallel to the story of Cain and Abel; brotherly love.
When he sang on Sundays,
as any choir boy should,
he held back gnashing teeth,
bit his tongue until blood drip, drip, dripped
to the rhythm of a hymn.
But now he sung his own tune
as he watched a mockingbird thrash,
crying out for mercy,
pinned to a stained white wall with iron nails
by the preacher's son.