No More Myth

What happens when
myths stop coming up
out of the ground?

A great fire-bird does not
come out of the traveling sun.

A crane no longer hangs
above the lake.

A clump of growth that
hangs over a crack in the
cement is a weed.

Extracted from the earth
is a story, the heart
has no place.

Wandering,
the spirits are wandering.

The microscope gives us
our answer and the camera
removes all doubt.

There is nothing to tell
around the fire, but
random tragedies,
rampant destructions,
fascinating facts.

Dissolve imagination,
shut out dreams,
stop making tales.

There is no need for poems,
or for stories, or for the making
of myths.

Community is gone
and woven tales are no longer
permitted to come out
of the earth.

Ciao!

+Tom