I — Metalwork
There are mountains that were once called gods;
they are mined to dust, and the old rivers are all dry.
We who build walls of steel, temples of chrome,
we who forge and erode our own gods—
we are smiths of bone, of blood, of spark.
We shape our great moments into molds
and sell our years to the casting and the bellows—
but if you look closely,
you can see the thin places
in the golden statues.
II — The Bends
Most metals are poisonous,
but the iron in our blood keeps us alive.
Our hearts pump that blood as rivers—
it soaks into our bones,
and turns to mist in our veins.
III — These Gods
Gods are nothing more than strangers
who knock at our doors in autumn,
intent on something just beyond our eyes—
as though our lives wear a fog
only they can see through.
These ephemerals whisper that we are immortal,
tune our heartstrings to play their sacred music,
and we are content to believe them as we age;
we are content to wait in slumber for the sun
with our blinds closed.
IV — Veil
We are defined by the moments we host,
so we fill our regrets with because,
and reward our lovers with dulled silver;
we forget to fear the mist
as we search for meaning in the sheets.
The fog obscures our eyes,
and we miss the sun as it rises—
our iron gods turn to rust,
our blood disperses,
and we succumb to blindness.
V — Idolatry
When our days become twilight,
the young inherit our spent gods.
This is the curse
we bring upon ourselves.
We fashion gilded temples for our lovers—
who were no more than our kindest strangers—
we worship our greatest moments,
and we pray to the gods we build;
we become what we deserve.
As we meet Death, we discover
that there is no one left to forgive us.