When a season passes, a god turns another
page and a fierce wind blows,
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 its feet,
around its lofty seat, scampering and
feeding on the breadcrumbs of its designs,
the leftovers dropping from its towering desk like rain
Salivating, the demons run around the god’s feet,
chasing and maiming and killing each other over
pieces of leftover dream, ripping each other apart,
spraying the land beneath them with thick, black blood
and bitter strife, eating each other up and casting the chewed,
bloody bones below, into the minds of mortals
And the afflicted do as the demons do,
paying no attention to the divine changing of the seasons
The god smiles. It knows what the
demons do, sees how their savage nature
infects the world below. It does not worry.
Paying no attention to the din beneath its feet,
and with a smile, it lights a candle,
smiting the dark corners of the chamber with
the soft warm hues of a fresh flame
Below, cannibal carnage and bedlam.
The demons tear each other to
shreds, sowing curses and monstrosity,
jealousy and apprehension, reaping envy and
fear, suspicion and spite and dread, festering
vanity and lust; seething, blistering envy.
Black clouds gather over the world, dripping
with demon-spite, drowning the land
in pools of fanfare and malice. Retarded progress stirs.
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 the dark nooks
and crannies, reminding the world beneath god’s 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 beneath our table and seat.
At our shuffling feet. Beyond our scope of worry.
