The Ventriloquist
Where is the voice
that once spoke here
in this ancient amphitheater
of weathered rock. Now, there is
only the wind muttering prayers
along the wall, nothing
more than the sound
of absence being squeezed
through stoney lips.
The gods are silent,
entombed between the pages
of books or paralyzed in marble
to grace the halls of history.
This is the age of the ventriloquist,
manipulator of the image
that gives animation and succor
to the need for talking gods.
We are not tuned to silence.
The noise of the self
deafens the soul
with its constant chatter.
Having torn down the temples,
we kick the dust of our endeavors
into a soundless void
as if trying to fill the infinite.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2023
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