When a season passes, a god turns another
page and a fierce wind blows across the land,
carrying away the remnants of unfulfilled thoughts
and unattained dreams. The sky shimmers and gleams,
and new life emerges, sparkling with hope and aspirations.
And the god smiles, awaiting the new turn of events.
And so do the demons playing at his feet,
around his lofty seat, scampering and
feeding on the breadcrumbs of his designs,
the leftovers dropping from his towering desk like rain.
Salivating, the demons run around the god’s feet,
chasing and maiming and killing each other
over every piece of dream they can sink their fangs in,
ripping each other apart, spraying the land beneath them
with their thick, black blood and their bitter strife,
eating each other up and casting the chewed,
bloody bones below, into the minds of mortals.
And the afflicted mortals do as the demons do,
paying no attention to the divine changing of the seasons.
The god smiles. He knows what the
demons do, and how their savage nature
infects the world below. He does not worry.
He smiles widely and, paying no attention to
the din beneath his feet, lights a mighty candle,
smiting the dark corners of the chamber with
the soft and warm hues of a flickering flame.
Below, cannibal carnage and bedlam.
The demons are tearing each other to
shreds, sowing curses and monstrosity,
jealousy and apprehension, reaping envy and
fear, suspicion and spite, and dread, festering
dread and vanity; seething, blistering vanity and lust.
Black clouds gather over the world, dripping
with demon-spite, immersing the land
in pools of fanfare and malice. Retarded progress
begins to stir. Sticky tentacles extend
from disturbed minds, writhing, flailing,
heaving with shiny, juicy, fruity promises made
by self-proclaimed saviors and charlatans, by midgets
standing on giants’ shoulders, pretending to seize the day.
They seize nothing other than people’s hearts,
squeezing, squeezing, squeezing with
maniacal obsession, crushing them to a pulp.
The god smiles. Such is the way of the universe.
Fierce. It was written so in the great script before
the oldest of the gods were formed, when the
world was just the beginning of a breath,
the assembly of a single thought, a tear springing
from the eye of a child in the dark of the night,
inside which the spirit of life resides.
The god smiles and places the mighty candle at the center
of the desk, in the center of the chamber, among a million other
candles. Their flames beam and radiate, illuminating every dark nook
and cranny, reminding the world beneath his feet that beyond every
black cloud and broken dream, beyond every unscrupulous,
small-minded scheme, blazes a light tended by those
who have our best interests at heart, waiting for us
to rise above the carnage and join them in a world
where the demons run amok not above our heads,
or in our midst, but underneath our table and seat.
Beneath our shuffling feet. Beyond our scope of worry.