All our stories started in the sky.

Storms are remembered.

How we arise, the gods that flit our eyes

even “for heaven’s sake” what is the point

of anything if it’s not celestial?

 

When we stop, to look up

is to look out.

 

Ancestors spoke blue

& then inhaled.

A contention of clouds is text

we are silenced by thunder

lead towards contemplation.

The moon is a medal worn

blazing in solar battles.

We crazy ones go there still,

steal some air & string it for our strangest tales.

 

All our prayers are water.

Contained it stagnates, let loose

refutes all connection.

Having reached the shore

we drop to our knees.

Hands cup                 sacrament

let down from our stipe, this temporary sanctuary

eyes forget their cage.

 

The temples built are a joke —

mere works to keep timbers occupied as

tides wander in to accept each supplicant.

Tears are the canticle of the body

sweat the sacrifice.

Our bones exist

to more effectively move the puddles we are.

We don’t die, we’re drained.

 

All our monsters are earth.

We are conceived on worked soil

with only dust for armour.

Slaves each of us

fed only when the leaflitter deigns to part.

Some think there are no chains

the cruellest deceit of all.

We are refused the radiance of the skyborne

can only imagine that path in wordtrash.

The waves accept us

but it is a loan, not migration.

 

Land gave us the first rocks

to be used as weapons.

Sticks and flints & the

hot promise of uranium.

Do what you will.

Golems all

when our water is reclaimed

we husks settle back down amongst the clods.