Temple in the Path of Xerxes

Stone frigid columns, pungent fumes, incense burning,
biting breeze penetrates the acute night outside,
pillars clammy, expressing my fear from learning
invaders coming tomorrow for genocide.

My children are safe at the coast,
their mother spirited them down,
with the slaves, my brother, and most;
she left my sword . . . . but not her gown.

Wind easily dispels incense and sacred smoke,
I understand our gods have also left this place,
perhaps they too are at the shore, beaten and broke
into human pieces of themselves and our race.

Why does a man stand firm after
the very gods fled far from this place?
I’ll always rail from the rafters,
look unyielding fate in the face.

Is the nature of gods to dissipate at whim?
So man must stand while the gods are only smoke
for the awe of future generations, brave him
who does not flee, but is privy to the old joke.

My children are safe at the coast,
their mother spirited them down,
with the slaves, my brother, and most;
she left my sword . . . . but not her gown.

I cannot imagine this place without myself,
but it’s better to believe in man than these cults,
for any man can readily complete himself,
while the gods can only cry at their results.

You know it’s coming.

You know it’s coming.

God, you know it’s coming.