Dreaming
Dreaming of sugar spun so high
I could barely touch the sky when
a bird came and sat on my shoulder
she said she was messenger of the
gods of this realm and we (the humans)
of course had forgotten to sow our
souls with seeds of true harvest
most notably we strew our seeds onto the
hard ground of leeched existence where
little can be gathered other than motes
awaiting the rain of content to soften
our fields, we discover perhaps the
drive to exhume something thought
lost but not buried, at least in the
usual of sentiments, not in the ground
but in the concrete village we call
our selves...we hope, we pray, we
silently scream for anyone to listen
the gods of this realm have turned
away to their parlor games as we no
longer remember to deify their
existence, so who will deify ours?
Copyright © Cynthia Cross | Year Posted 2019
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