The Pantheon on Parade

How they march, how they sing, how they sigh.  In parade dress they form ranks, young men impersonating gods in a hurry to confess.   Haste has killed holier deities of lesser faiths.  Let the days pass in their natural way, as the pantheon dictates.  Surely the desired day will arrive, if only because it has nowhere else to go.  Perhaps your desire will drag it here a wee bit faster.

Are you cognizant?  Are you sentient?  Do you recognize your infinite luck and finite time?  How many gifts will you return, unwilling to admit it’s because you’ve already received the best one?  Does the pantheon resonate with the gratitude exuding from your pores, your wide and smiling forest green eyes?  When you’re looking forward, time is only in the way.  A building anxiety in your heart, head, and loins.  Oh my, tiger.  How you long to sleep in a bed not your own, and you’ve finally found a bed that feels like you belong–a veritable jungle.

This is the menagerie of old memories and repellant creatures; chamomile and crenoline and countless perfumed coifs, all a carousel of inanimate creatures moving up and down rigid, unmovable poles.  I think this one, short and sweet, just might be alive. 

How long will you ride, sir?  You look exhausted.  Surely you need to sleep.

I haven’t any idea, but at least as long as time, the pantheon, and she allows me to.  As of now, for now, from now: for as long as possible.