The Coming

It rained so hard that night it blocked the sun
long before it nudged the shoulders
of the mountain, and darkness lingers still.
Some were surprised, but there were signs.
Their acolytes announced it from the rooftops,
and every corner of the public square,
where truth was sacrificed at the altar
of greed and superstitious woe,
as talking heads replaced golden idols
and graven images of old.

Many were swayed by the tide,
but some of us fled to the hills
only to be covered by shadows of our own,
and dare not light a flame and draw their wrath.
Our children huddle with their mothers
who stroke their hair with vacant stares,
at men who pace in helpless desperation.
These things were foretold long ago,
are largely now forgotten,
for only those can slay the gods
who breathed life into them
in the beginning.