here…wading in our omnipotence

Hands, sinewous and strong, the yoke of many burdens aloft upon our shoulders. We the walls which suck the pain that escapes from eyes, lips quivering and flesh pushing the pain like grease, which never seems to depart. We are gods, the fisher of men, nullifying the pain, making things right.

“I’ll make it right for you.”

“I know I can”

Yet they lie there, limp and dead, the marrow of their being ascended into the etherial loom of infinity. And we sob, our tears collapsing like lead to our pillow. We are these weak gods, these weak tangible forms which will one day crumble to ash.