Sacred

Something must be sacred.

Otherwise, it’s all noise –

A blurry static lapsing into black.

Something must be held up

Beyond the reach of the cynical mind

Where sun and soul can pay tribute –

Body tremble with fear and love.

How do we know what to worship?

We have seen through so much.

So many gods put out to pasture –

Diluted beyond recognition –

Castrated into metaphors.

What have we left standing?

Some vague hope of higher things;

Some small reverence for children;

Precious little precious else.

We need to fill the darkness again –

With wonders if not with terrors –

Before we lose that inward self

That long-dead mystics called the soul,

Which we, too grown for such a word,

Might called “humanity” –

Or whatever we like.

But call it something.

Feed it something, too.

Or find yourself alone,

On the black edge of everything,

Clinging hopelessly to nothing –

Nothing in your heart but blood.