At five in the morning it was already too bright. The swollen moon blazing through the vapor, playing at halos, casting habitual spells. That ordinary magic counted down, dawn soon peeling away each star. The moon another stone calling up the ocean. The moon another goddess raising her skirts to the sky. Her altar another lifeless slab left behind.
The gods change their names and faces, soap opera actors dying and rising from the dead. The gods change their portions while we learn how to measure the great and small. This quintessence of dust all trick and labor. This brief and brutal life all riddle and rule. Tides of steel and murder, lives pared down to cartoons for children's sentiments while these youth are cast into the fire. We fail our kin their very descent, and then we burn the evidence, thinking it is our words that need mending.
Dusk falls, and I already know the news tomorrow. Night comes, and I already witnessed the fall. I am no match for my portion, my head against it and my heart built wrong. The moon tonight will shine on blindly, over love and crime and misery. The stars will stretch out their candle flicker and their ancient will. Children will murder children and no rod will be spared. Children will be lost forever and they will claim it all for God. Heaven can not be buried deep enough.