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.
therichardbraxton 