Poetry: Ruin Weed

First published by White Stag Publishing

Ruin Weed

This is the end of the golden age.

I can tell by the ruin weed that grows

in all of our crumbling corners.

Ours is a time come and gone,

fit for excavation and examination,

the rituals we obeyed,

the contents of our hearts and stomachs.

Did we cut each other down

with those obsidian blades,

or were they just for decoration?

Did we worship a higher power

or were we simply proud

of the mighty bull we slew

to mount his head on the wall?

We grabbed him by the horns

and pulled him down to our level.

We felt his animal strength.

We were hardly less primal,

satisfying our needs in mud houses

baked clean in the sun.