We're broken like gods,
Fed ambrosia then discarded for new.
We roost on mountains of
Adoration, toppled by machine.
Drunk on praise, making feasts where
We consume the love of eons past.
The food is a shackle, we stumble
Through halls that were once well-lit.
These caverns look a lot like our minds.
What's a banquet without food?
A cemetery for happy recollections.
A home for the dust to reclaim.
Like moths, there's an irrevocable urge
To sprint into flames.
I wonder if they know what they're losing.
I wonder if they know what we're losing.
The Oracle predicted this.
The sibyl's predilection seems cruel now.
Like a joke where the laugh is delayed,
As if watching the punchline take shape
From nascent ground.
The ground isn't new like the punchline,
It's soiled with wine and history.
There's no more feast, but the halls are
Lined and the tables set,
And maybe that's the funny she wanted.
Like moths to a flame, we turn to dust.
At least I can laugh with the fates.
YOU ARE READING
Rising Colossus
PoetryLost in words, lost in the world, no world to call home. Wandering the stars and writing as I traverse. Collection of Self-written Poetry.
