Dead Gods
I speak great thoughts,
alone in my head-
with no one to utter;
but that’s what he said.
The old ones died,
far before their time-
an apocolypse of rational,
was never so sublime.
The spider spun,
the web grew divine,
till truth spoke poisonous-
and tainted the wine.
Who called the ancients
to arise and to dance?
When beckoned to die,
they left us to chance.
Those who never live,
have no fear of dying.
A puppet of half strings,
abyssmal when trying.
Those who have lived,
fear only their shadows;
as the day ages-
they’re stunted, while it grows.
Long lines emerge,
as if on painted sand.
The face loses form-
sinking into the land.
So went the gods,
first by twos then in droves.
under the mountain side-
and agriculturally sound groves.
We called the gods to die,
before their time and beneath their sky-
when speaking out of term
we insisted upon a leveled why.
It wasn’t enough,
to see stars sparkle as jewels.
We pirated the crown,
like court jesters and fools.
Now looking around,
for someone to blame-
it’s upon each other,
we set sight and take aim.
No fallen angels,
or punished sins.
It’s all or nothing
else no one wins.
