Kill the Gods

Forgotten gods cluster together like constellations of post-mortem scars forming,
crystallised ocean remnants,
salt pressed and tattooed on the skin of human history
composing salt crystals and fingerprints and decomposing like dying cells and skeleton leaves.
The tides of us, washed and blurred at the edges,
smoothed like fossilised wood and glass pebbles littering waves of resurrections
reborn and torn asunder
the thunder of their hearts silenced as they
sleep (if gods sleep at all)
in infinity with the fishes on the ocean bed
(the quiet ocean death) of humanity’s collective
consciousness.
I wonder where the ghosts of gods go
where the scales of those sleeping fishes lie on that soft sea bed
without a priest or saint to exorcise the remains
of prayers whispered in those uneasy heads.
In ruined churches or over the mouths of graves
kissed into temple walls that crumble before these dying lords
and ladies.
We kill them in still mornings
when our faith fades under the sunlight, evaporating shadows like the dew
new gods will be made
as old bones are laid to rest.

Old cloaks cast off after a few centuries shuffle by
a few thousand years, a dying civilisation fading into dust.
We will find their remains in legend, buried in scripture obituaries
idols like fallen teeth
angels and demons and saints and sacrilege, ashes beneath.

Temples laid bare, turning into decaying tombs
gods are made, not born,
built upon in wombs brick by stone by hand through generations
shaped and formed with words instead of blood.
Some are cobblestone compilations
echoes of ghosts and mythologies recycled
rusted relics of the past;
well-loved, worn hand-me-downs laid to rest and resurrected.
Reuse, recycle
we kill the gods
and claim powerlessness