the dirt under your shoe
is made from the ashes
of the fallen god's and goddesses,
their broken chalices sticking up from the
roots
imbedded in their new
skin.
god has forsaken us,
they say through soft whispers
carried by the wind,
and the angels wave to you and agree with
those whispers that sift
through the
leaves
which hold their
wings.
chills run down your spine
as the words
meet your ears,
and you feel the trees that hold
the universe within them,
they give you
life
while they
die.
and so, while the
bark falls and withers
and the branches break,
you bend the
roots
under the dirt with your
shoe,
and you step on angels
wings
when leaves crunch under your
feet.
the fallen angels
and
the dying universe
forgive you.
