Old Gods

heofspeckledplumage:

They say:
You are all dust,
And ash,
And the dregs left
At the bottom of a cup.

They laugh:
Who would bow
To gods with blood on their hands
And a roar in their throats

They forget:
Their god’s hands were never clean

I say:
How could you forget
To worship the sun?

My blood sings in response
To the voices of these ancient gods
And I lift my cries to join theirs
Wild and unmatched.

They gift me knives and light
And sharp teeth.

They walk in my dreams,
All feathers and skin that smells
Of the darkest places of night
And the brightest places of day.

I laugh:
You read your dusty tome.
My gods have never been more alive.