We were marked for failure from the start.
You painted a line at the edge of a cliff and told us not to cross it.
Your eyes said differently, they challenged us.
For a while we toed the line, minded our manners, and dreamed of the other side.
Of greener grass than this.
We failed to see the cliff across the line or the other broken bodies you had lured to their deaths at the bottom.
We were cattle you had chosen, branded, and fattened up. Our necks hung over your alter and we willingly bared our throats for the knife, however unknowingly.
Our noses could not smell blood, our eyes could not see danger, and we could feel no fear.
You handed us the tools for our demise. Our hands gripped the knife, our palms sweated with exhilaration and giddiness.
You spoke to the others of us. Held us up as an example. This is what happens to those who cross me.
You killed children. You demanded virgin blood on your alter and we obliged.
We toed the line until it blurred, parts disappearing completely. We exchanged sly grins and said in hushed whispers. We can't cross it if it is no longer there.
We stepped into space, certain you would be proud of us.
We hung in limbo for a moment, then fell, crashing into the staked pit, the elaborate trap you had set.
Our blood ran in streams down the dried canyon, trickling along until it came to lake filled with the blood of our brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, those who had not lived past their prime.
Those whom you had taken from us.
You dipped you bucket into the lake, walked up the narrow, stumbling trail to the top of the cliff and drew a line.
Our nieces and nephews faced you with proud, eager faces as you told them not to cross it.
And without fail, they all fell.
Angels always do.
You would know that the best of all of us.