These temple steps, once bright and festive,
let the best of us ascend
to dwell with our gods.
Then came others
from different temples,
with weapons in hand, curses in their throats,
and blood on their minds.
In the midst of the last festival,
we were slaughtered lambs.
All the colorful robes, gowns, and masks…
stained with blood and smeared with
the gore of broken skulls.
The songs became screams.
Terror, despair, pleas for mercy.
The music drowned by the sound,
and plowed under by stampeding feet.
*****************************
I come back now, the lone survivor.
Standing on the moonlit steps.
Standing in the silence.
Standing in the sadness that we,
so high of thought and deed,
could think divinity would bother.
They tossed us crumbs of coincidence
and called it blessing.
And with the passing of time,
we aged and grieved for our naivete,
so new, fresh, and hopeful.
And even now,
standing on shadowed,
silent steps,
we fall lifeless into the earth,
and grieve
for the hollow spirits we once
revered in love.
BlackQuill 