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When entities have been forgotten, become lost
and unfriended, they come to me. In the Days
Before, this was something of a certainty; now
I find myself unsurprised in whole new ways.
If you are going to choose only one belief
about Gods, choose this: not a single human
knows anything. No one has ever begotten
an accurate description. They get it wrong.
Always, some fabric-unraveling inconsistency,
rises and their well-rounded, enriched religion
is revealed for what it is: a child's drawing
of the indescribable. Usually Super Heroes
of some kind who are better and kinder, or not.
Some are just bigger and all children know this:
the biggers can push around the small of them,
because they can. Of course they worship that.
Gods and Heavens don't exist unless they do,
that's as accurate as any anthology or liturgy
gets. What happens to discarded Works of Men?
Where do Old Gods go to die of quiet isolation?
They come to Me. Preservetus, the God
of the Forgotten Gods. They come because
I remember their names when names die,
remember their High Holy Days, remember
the things they like sacrificed, the essence
that a litany of voices is crucial to maintain.
I mean, I bring them meals and sing songs
only they and I still remember the words to,
for as long as they can yet hold their shape.
Afterwards I put them to sleep in grounds
beyond the reach of dream or supplication;
a place where the Gods are safe from men.
...throw a prayer into the air,
see is someone's listening there.
count to one starting at ten,
see if anyone's listening then...
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