I pulled back a corner of
loose wallpaper in my
kitchen
and found a colony of
frantic ants,
building pyramids for
their dead kings,
a manic labor of fear
and hope
only they weren’t ants at
all,
they were men driving
dusty elephants
chained to blocks of
stone, and
some had whips and some
had scars,
and furnace winds scorched
the earth
with a sound like a low
moan
from the bunkhouse of
slaves
only they weren’t men at
all,
they were angels and
demons
and a vast middle class
of spirits in between and
as I pulled I drew back
the veil on the
crimson palace of an
emperor-god in a walled city
full of the near dead and
the long dead,
full of hungry-eyed
priests
peddling eternity
only he wasn’t a god at
all,
he was a familiar child
asleep,
dreaming of waking from
an epic dream
No comments:
Post a Comment