by David Chorlton
The gods still meet in an operatic forest
where mist and gloom surround them
as they discuss small matters
such as who lives and who will perish.
It’s all the same to them
in their helmets and breastplates and all
the trappings of their power.
They regard mortality as a kind of weakness,
they who are immune to any virus
and protected from the wars
they ignite on a whim
with a stab of fresh lightning.
We know their names
but we can’t get rid of them
with their bad moods
and greed. Even when the votes
have been counted and they are declared
out of date, defunct and irrelevant
they won’t go away. O they say
they will change but they only
mean clothes and they’re back
in the business of fate
with baritone voices rolling
through the shadows
where they retreat to plan another
election down on Earth,
and another conflict so they
who cannot die
have others do it for them.
David Chorlton lives in Phoenix where he writes and keeps watch for the birds in his urban setting. He likes to celebrate the desert in his work, but sometimes a cautionary tone intrudes as is the case in his chapbook The Lost River, published last year by Rain Mountain Press.
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