The God of Our Dreams/Adagio
by Le Hinton
The last particle of belief died last week.
Crawled into a corner and expired.
This isn’t melodrama,
simply the way of existence
Remember, this was a love story about the death
of a soul you once held in your hand,
beating, then beaten,
then throbbing no more.
The insistence of our carnivorous nightmares
reminds us that our fears aren’t overreacting
to the sight of knives and forks and menus
devoid of desert.
Demi-gods like us ignore the warnings
and fly into of the teeth of dreams
searching for some magical escape
while hoping to avoid the incisors’
gnashing of our hearts
and the wailing of each sacrificial cell.
And when the god of our dreams
descends to dress our slain souls
in white satin before the funeral,
the solicitous embrace tastes
like J’s last kiss.
Poor tiny belief
He knew so little.
Said even less.
How much more can nothing say?
How much more can silence do?
I believed once or twice.
For now, I believe I’ll shut up.