gods without a church,
without a congregation,
passing the time pounding the pavements,
sharing tossed away cigarettes with magicians looking for a stage.
magicians with only leftover magic,
swiped from dumpsters,
keeping warm with glamorless dragons,
with flames barely enough to light a trash can.
not enough to dream as dragons do,
of fire and gold and the might to rule the skies,
only a memory tint left,
like marmalade on your fingers.
haunting the rocks and the once power full rivers,
passing hills steeped in hot and pungent history,
but long left to cool and forget,
where now only lizards visit the slatepile shrines.
sometimes a junkie fairy lurches by,
weighed down by unfamiliar gravity and mundane grubbiness,
exchanging remember when we’s…
crumpled like old newspaper, smoothed and read and crumpled again.
small gaps in the empty spaces that once overflowed,
and small magicks, like falling stars.
a brief reminder in that dying radiance,
that these meager lights once illuminated the universe,
once danced to the music of the spheres,
and once worshipped at the mighty feet of the now faded,