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Where are the Old Gods?
Dearest violence,
I count on your blessings,
To stack statues
and be vigilant of earth's many comforts,
A callous reimagining of things to come,
To flaunt vice in my face
so if to say be peace unphased,
Ignorant peace,
Be silent if you must speak
and let down in whispers,
Let bells ring if they hear you
come in to the keep,
a den of wolves march through
shifty sand-
grain like angels appear
to battle with paper tongues
in a rush of ink
causing us to quiver
at their bibles will,
Dearest Peace,
Weep however much
to keep the rain on my window seal,
Feel my hands run through your hair
and add oil to a painting made pure
in this last act of a killing season,
Blood red days show the face of the old gods
rising up through verminous waste,
to grab golden sceptor and at long last
a fledgling rise to old glows,
Dealing the death blow to our
odd posture,
displeasure is as common as any other feeling
My fondest, Memory,
Where are you know?
Where was it I put you?
Did I lock you up with evil ones?
I've called and tried truth
to protect you
but here you are again,
missing-
I'm still here
just listening to you behind some
membrane I've locked in my own brain
as I'm pounding on the wall,
Sweating a fountain of salt,
Finding imaginary sledge bangers
or jack thumpers to clear the way,
Was it a day at the park?
Was it a night out on the town?
Was it my mother reading to me
while my brother snorred logs into lumber?
Love Sincerely,
Wishful thinking
