We once stood around
in great, Earth-worn circles,
raising our arms up to
the heavens, praying for
rain, or a good hunt,
in front of a stone monolith,
made from some curious
geologic event.
On stone alters smeared
with human blood we prayed
through sacrifice for good crops,
a good hunt, the end of drought,
for more blessings of fertility;
head-dressed priests, yelled and
smoked, chanted and wailed,
while the people kneeled on rocks.
The ancient mysteries of our
human need to worship
lost to time,
lost to new stone idols,
lost to new Earthen-worn paths,
then new worship thrust upon gold, or
jewels, or even the rare
prophet.
It is our human nature
to want to worship at the feet
of power, even if that power is
fiction. Even if that power comes
from an evil place.
Even if that power is based in lies
and deceit. We cannot resist
the unrelenting call to worship.
Sky Gods, Sea Gods, Land Gods,
patron Saints of shoes and sand,
heretics and martyrs, vying for a
panoply of virtues, listed on tomb
walls of the wealthy and the poor
alike, tied together in dusty death,
forgotten under time.
Forgotten prayers of the faithful.
Do not pray for the defeat of
foes.
Do not worship at the feet of those
who would step on you.
Do not idolize the cruel,
masquerading as if it was bravery.
Shy away from gold lined pockets,
begging for alms.
Follow no crowds over cliffs of grandeur.
Make no Gods of ordinary deeds.
