A bassinet was once delivered
from the mountain to the land of the sinners,
Goddess, divine,
they knew it when she was a babe.
Now the river's dry,
the trees are withered,
the people scattered, dead,
cast like litter
across the desert sands
where the Doglands span
across the wastes.
She walks along,
starved and decrepit,
what made her a God has made her tepid,
though her feet blister,
she cannot feel the pain.
Other gods bitch and bicker,
the fault of many, or,
the fault of one?
she stands outside the mob
of strays
and does not play their game.
One other god strides aside,
though he the topic of their raging eyes
he's been long gone
before they were thrown this way.
In her mind
she hears the prayers
of the mortals, the sinners,
monsters of devotion,
desiring guidance that they once pitched
into the fires
they had started.
She cannot listen,
choosing to hear the
churning grave's hollow yawning;
there's nothing she can do
to save them, anyway.
She's as lost as they are now,
victims to red sands of time
forced to make do
or decide to die;
so she cannot hitch herself to
the tides of grief just yet.
YOU ARE READING
DOGLANDS
PoesieDOGLANDS Be wary now, the only Gods that travel here are strays. They're starved, maniacal, ill-treated and angry. They are not objects of devotion, they are makers of destruction. DOGLANDS, a poetry collection/story by _poetberry. ©2019
