I love the mythology of monsters emerging from the darkest of woods,
Of spirits brought forth in rage by a human transgression,
Its presence called out
To avenge a human violation.
We dig into the earth as if it was ours to dissect,
Our machines and unleashed greed
Take us far past where our sense would take us.
Nothing is sacred when nothing is held back.
In these hands, and under these eyes,
Peace is as fragile and elusive as sleep.
And each soul, and the country-side shakes
In a fear that tastes like anticipation,
As if we knew,
As if each step on this forbidden road had been taken before.
And we, and the sleeping spirits, all knew our place.
The burden of Christmas Past is finally set down,
And we, by some spell-bound compulsion,
Must pick it up
And carry it
To its next lumbering destination.
Perhaps this is the eternal pattern of history unfolding.
We, like the feathered dinosaurs, imagine that the earth is ours,
That we, unlike those who came before,
Will never precipitate our own extinction.
We tell ourselves that our triumph will be final.
But we forget, and lie to our children,
Or carry, like some sacred ignorance,
The story, the recurring immensity
Beyond our own reach and sight.
And we know, beyond the boundaries of human knowledge,
That forces have been awakened,
And far worse,
Than we have seen before.
These spirits unleashed will bear no master,
And they in their turn
Will only retreat when their work is done.
I can’t see
And I can’t remember,
If the curse is lifted
Or forever released like some raging eternally hungry ravaging soul.