Poem

The gods fall

no matter how grand and gilded the idol

or how costly the sacrifice laid

before the high pedestal.

Underneath those shining layers of

carefully-applied veneer

hide crumbling clay feet.

He will let you down.

There is no divinity in that form

you’ve been adoring

no salvation

in those powerful alabaster arms

you’ve lovingly caressed.

If you could see the reality

instead of the dream-blind glamor

the whole hollow thing

would tumble into the light

to cower there ashamed

naked, cracked, rotted, empty,

the incarnation of nothing more than

sawdust, cobwebs, broken promises,

and foolishness.