they call you, the title murmured
from blog to blog, repeated
like a banishing incantation.
where do they live, these writers who see only cities
of dying gods? i do not think
we share the same earth. crumbling myths
like crumbling marble, they say,
and each day i pray to the names they profess
to have forgotten. dead gods, they say,
and i remember every way
you picked me up when i was broken.
cynicism and irony grow cheap. i see,
springing from the clay around my home,
a revival. a vitality. a life more than life and a love
more than love. no golden blood’s been spilled
in the cities where i walk. no palaces in the sky
have crumbled that i’ve seen.
and i trust my eyes
because i trust you
to help me see.
i trust my faith, i trust my friends, i trust the heavenly fire
which sets me alight and keeps me living. i trust my gods
are not forgotten.
— i am tired of poems about dying gods // r.s.b.