breathing gods

I often wonder where
people who place their lives
in the shallow palms
of gods who breath
find hope.

The waking of the powerless
lends beauty to our
sun-drenched tomorrows
yet they wake and forget
the exact same
sun-drenched yesterdays
that failed to dry tears,
silence car alarms,
allay not-so-dormant fears,
or sate bloated bellies.

I never feared,
you would be one
such breathing god.
I placed you as high
as my arms could reach
and you kept me mum
with sweet-soft lullabies.
I feel so old now
like a child lost to age
and disappointment.
It seems, my breathing god,
your powers faded
with my youth:
my eyes grew
accustomed to the truth.
The spell is broken now
dear breathing god,
The cord of birth
that held me to you
stretches tight and thin.

Lives placed in the shallow
palms of breathing gods
are laced with
the same tint
of bitterness,
so like a lamb
trailing the path
of a doomed flock
I too shall hope,
though never in gods
sown with the same thread
of fallibility and fallacy.