Anointed for burial.
You’ve been dead a while.
Can’t hear the street gods
you used to pay homage to.
Have you been domesticated?
Fallen out of touch?
Or maybe those old gods
never existed,
and you were just deceiving yourself.
Creating masters
to serve,
so that you didn’t have to
take responsibility
for all the shit you’ve done.
Makes me wonder, though.
If those street gods
are just inventions,
then why are there so many?
No end
to the multitude of our sins.
No end
to the multitude of our despair,
that we’re willing to create
a pantheon
of bloodthirsty deities
to imbibe our sins,
so that we can do more.
Hungry and devouring spirits.
No.
Maybe I was wrong.
Maybe not an invention at all.
Perhaps those old street gods
are just a way
we dress up some wickedness
far older.
Something lurks in the dark,
nestled in the refuse
and the alley trash,
waiting for us to come looking
for a place to hide
from ourselves.
They wait,
welcoming with open arms.
Street gods,
with ancient names,
sigils, and old tongues
spray painted over and over.
A plea
to the darkness.
Found and lost.
Repented
and redemption.
You no longer hear
them calling anymore,
because you’re not out there,
hiding amongst the stones
and pavement,
and park benches.
New and better acolytes
have taken your place.
More and more,
the street gods call
and people hear.
Consider yourself fortunate.
Their altars
in the doorways
and dumpsters
overflow with blood.
The street gods
are as old
as our torments.
HG – 2022
