Taking Gods

I went down to the river and spoke to the fishes. I asked the wind to give me life, I prayed to the gods of the forest to cry out for me, I spilled my blood on the stones to fill their appetite, I grew weak, then strong, then climbed the mountain till the only thing I hadn’t done was find you.

I tore the sky apart and spat flame into the void. I carved stars into your shape, trying to give truth to who you might be, but failed, for no start could ever hold you. I harvested clay, plucked spider webs and spun a bed to hold you in, so that I might taste your truth, but still I could touch no vessel.

I grew wings and raised the dead from the soil, spoke to them in tongues which tore my mouth, and no secret could be yielded. I raced horse down plains of white, sands of gold and pristine, to get a scent of your trail, to hunt you down. But no wolf nor furred one could chase your fleeting tail.

And in the end when I became bloodless and tired, broken and hopeless, there you were. No light, no godling, but the truth, the fullness of all that is real. You stood there like an angel of grace, but needed no flight or higher power to take me, make me your own, and make nothing else matter. Your embrace was more than any bed could comfort, your kiss like nothing the wind could summon. Your skin held more fire than Apollo’s chariot, your heart like no sun could ever shine. You were more, everything, and yet nothing I could ever have imagined.