Gods
It has come to be
such that we are risen
from the fabric of sustenance formed,
come to be
that there resides a structure
so rarely formed
beneath humble conditions
of stagnation and retention
in which the atom has come to grow,
from substance develop form.
These hands and flesh,
this fire and zeal that from absence flared,
grand constructs
that like others absorb
reforge, and retain.
How is it then, that matter has come to converse,
reproduce, recreate?
How is it that from this ore I make civilization,
how is it that from the space about I unsheathe sword?
And all that is within our reach
is like a sea of humble play dough
that yet threatens to drown us out.
So we are atoms that can reforge
In their own image remake,
look at the bonding of tree
and see with these curious eyes
a fortress, a stake.
Humble little cretins that scurry beneath the sky,
bitter little sprites stung deeply by defeat.
Lo it is only human
to suffer, to fall, to writhe
to cry out in supplication and victory all the same.
Human to take joy, roar with passion,
intent, to savor fragrance and flight
fervent upon our plight.
Yet look only to your nearest possession,
your last sentiment, harbored gift,
you who will one day possess the stars
you who have laid claim upon all
and it rests so easily in your palms.
And who
but the gods
was made to anguish?
Who but the gods
rose to care?
Who but maker, master
from mere hands create?
We stand above all else the makers of fire,
thunder, the benders of substance and form.
Young Zeus and kin,
milling subtly beneath the ire of titans,
our parents the sun, the earth, the depth of space;
in innocence shying away from our birthright
yet dare I claim what is ours:
Look only to your hand, the length of your sight,
the depth of your heart.
Look next upon the fated atom, the collapsing star,
the waning giant.
See then your magnitude,
young God astride the Earth.
See then that immortality is but the guile of innocence,
a child’s dream upon the night.
Here we are, learning to stand
our gaze locked surely to the maw of defeat,
we know that all there is must crumble,
we know that all we touch must change,
we know that we are shaper, sculptor
not sacred nor divine.
Nothing but the children of stars,
birthed upon their godhood
and we need only claim our death,
stare down our demise,
learn that godhood is not given or granted
but once upon a twinkling star
comes birth and growth and complex form,
though tiny and frail it may be
has come to hold all the structures within me
that love and laugh and dream to see
the skies above so dark and clear,
it draws my gaze and thrills my depths
with the seduction of silence it calls me near.
The many gods of humankind,
yet too busy upon their strife
battling over mother’s teat.
I wonder if you will grow soon,
crown yourselves king,
stand tyrant before that which is free,
and how long till we relinquish this potential
before the certainty of matter?
How long till we truly learn
that gods are by their own substance humbled,
that gods are by their flesh curtailed,
nothing more than ashes
that before a star had flared.
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