by Tom Doyle
Drag us up, pull us down,
Flashy gems, flashy lyre,
They can’t be dead without us.
The gods were taller then,
When we thought open fields were innocence.
But they grew small, standing together,
Puny bird chests puffing songs and commands.
If they had but spoken heard
As we had seen felt
We might have lost each other
For heaven and earth.
Now we prefer the quiet of sipping pomegranate juice,
To the noise of thunder and the jangling of strings,
To games of chutes, snakes and ladders.
We enjoy these autumn leaf men,
Silently forsaken here, too late learning awe
Of spring, maids and love.
If they could see us, mothers lovers god man,
Perhaps we wouldn’t be here,
But they could only look need must want.
So beautiful, cold and unalone.