August Poem 36: Ragnarok

Catastrophes. Revealing stripes of the

Manufactured Gods. Hidden like slender

Cigarettes held to their lips. The old Gods

Growing in a field as leaves. Let their smoke

Linger in their veins. Wrapping. Smothering.

And hiding between religions. Hiding.

The snakes and spiders and rats and rocks and

Pits. They balance the feeble human mind.

But it doesn’t make sense to remember

Where Gods have not been poisoned. Where you saw

Them last. Stalking you. But you don’t want to

Chance their bite. The Gods had been exceptions.

Wrong. Tied. But that didn’t stop them. Or you’d

See them now in the grass. Decomposing.

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