what if I told you
that the stones you smashed
were your own gleaming bones
that the rocky marrow
was the quickening of life
the antidote to fever
that the muscles of rites
still lay quivering, recoverable
but would rot nearly traceless
that the flesh of myth
you decided to skin, to dry,
to schism into the ground
did not look that way
when vibrant upon the suppleness
of living rites for living Gods
that years from this day
your descendants will kneel
on rain-softened ground
the rituals’ details forfeited
to now-breaking ideological fevers
that sowed amnesia, unplacing
they will not remember you
as you want to be remembered —
just people — but just people
who destroyed precious things
your iconoclasm to some impiety
to the rest historical calamity
descendants embedding
shame into the memory of you
you become villains, your victims
a litany of lost books, so precious
a register of lost Gods, mere syllables
they will come to mourn, not you
📚
KALLISTI 
😦
LikeLiked by 1 person