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.