When entering the Gorge, leave behind all preconceptions. Let yourself be carried off on a stream of consciousness that tickles the heavens as readily as it grinds down stone.

Seasons

candle girl writing

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.

stars sky