The Sky People

They don’t pull the strings anymore.
They don’t perform those miracles anymore.
They are not amused anymore
as we continue to cling feverishly
to our mortal shells.
 
They say
they’re all around us:
in every dust mote,
in every grain of pollen,
in every drift of sand,
in every devastating cyclone
or the most silent whisper,
in every act of kindness
or the loudest whiplash.
 
They say
they gloated at their creation–
the grand spectacle beneath their feet.
 
For millennia,
every prince and pauper,
every man and child,
every wailing mother
who lost her dear one
to the cruel twist of fate,
and every woman
who never had the chance to be,
looked at the skies
for a bead of sweat
or a glimpse of hope.
 
For millennia,
we had questions–
about life, and its purpose,
about hatred, plague, suffering, mortality,
about death, silence–
your silence, your inaction.
But these, and countless more,
were never answered.  
 
We languished. We perished.
Impaled. Trampled. Run over.
On riverbeds. On battlefields.  
In a lover’s lap.
In the warmth of a mother’s bosom.
From flesh, lust, and bone,
to rot, rust, and dust.
Like the fate of an anthill in a cornfield,
you mow us down–
our spark…our sting…our spirit,
to prepare the ground for the next crop.

Is higher consciousness
so utterly cold, unfeeling
and incomprehensible?
Each of you
with no face, no soul, no passion,
no ticking, no kicking, no tingling.

Is our existence on earth
a mirror of such soullessness
that you so despise to peep at?
Are you too scared
to witness such horrendous ugliness--
a product of your own wily schemes and devices?