The Games We Play with Gods – A poem.

This is the beginning, in which
we see ourselves revealed—
shallow husks of skin that drift
through the blackest ocean,
pricked by the needles of gods.
Light bleeds through, tiny slivers
remind us of magic, and we gasp at shapes,
name them after dragons,
twins, and the mundane we know.

This is the beginning, in which
heaven enthralls us—
forget about husbands and wives,
waste away chasing stars.

Old eyes fail, and through
shaped and polished glass
we throw ourselves into the sky—
feel the drift and pull of planets
pass so close our fingers brush them.
Gods remain out of grasping hands,
still we try to climb into heaven.
Chasing prey we’ve never seen.

In time we puncture the black—
lights from our own needles.
Flames as long as rivers
smear the sky and blind us—
drifting in the dark, we are enveloped
in nothing.

JKolasch