The Myth

A poem by Douglas Cole 

I want the great agethe ring of colossal constructionmonuments that amazeeven when seen from spacemighty works that vibratethrough generations and liveI’m standing on an empty roadthe only word for it is wastelandwar couldn’t cause this devastationground leveled peaks goneno water no windtime running outwe’re sifting through ruinswith new reading skillsand others less attuned mightcall this rock marsh or boguntil we find the cathedral'svine-covered steps and at lastthe altar used for the sacrificetwo lights shine across a fieldunwavering and clear as I goand I seem to be getting nearerthough it takes forever to get thereon sluggish mud-sinking feetbut when I doI find myselflooking through another faceseeing your lipsI lean in to kiss Featured image (modified) CC0: Dorothe (darkmoon1968)