Giants

Where have the giants gone, the men of the sword and rock and shield? They stood like proud pennants on the battle field, unshakeable standards in a trembling world. But they lie beaten by a crushed enemy, their giants' breath crucified even in a confident cry of victory. There was a time when I would crawl to bath and heal my blemishes in their shadows. I would kneel beside their footprints and fill the craters with my scalding tears of longing and desire. In those steamy pools lived a silhouetted specter, distorted and twisted in dissatisfaction, but possessor of the hawk's hungry eyes. And the giants made the hungry only hungrier, and I would follow their rippling standards on hallowed ground to untenable heights, where we would laugh of hope and victory, purchased past and fulfillment to come.

But the giants are gone.

There are no giants. We rally to midget men-at-arms, the tall is short and the short is shorter. We stand at the crossroads of a thousand paths, each with it's own salesman: blue pin-stripes and button down collar stained red by a bloody tie, smile as bright as night, voice like a nauseously buzzing fly. We file on in complacent desire, going where the road may go, captives to the silk shackles of compliance. Conformity is our battle cry, capitulation in the name of consonant orthodoxy.

Here's to the Giant of Giants, his flag to be unfurled, harbinger of eternal victory and hope.

Michael

would be nice...