The Gods of men are like folded paper birds
risen from ruins of campaigns better lost.
At first they drank the nectar of records kept,
Interest and Capital always a sure bet.
But numbers alone did not a story make
and flowers that grew from crumbled tablets
could no more slake the thirst of these noble birds.
So they left the ruins in search of new worlds.
Ever to wander and to seek novelties:
Journals like beetles
Clan hist’ry a spider
Founding myths like mites
Gay little aphids
Honeysuckle essays
Red cardinal tracts
Salvia epics
Columbine romance
For millenia, never a one did starve
But as the works of men birthed complicity
so the common people forgot how to read
and those who could write feared they had no audi’nce
And so one-by-one the Gods began to starve
Never again to drink from novel flowers:
No lupine comedies
nor lily lectures
No pinkroot tragedies
nor larkspur pamphlets
No Azalea novellas to publish
nor scarlet creeper serials in magazines
Such was the demise of the children of man,
survived only by the relics that remain.