gods of theirs

spirits surround me here. i am not alone.
with a clapping of the hands, i wake the gods.

a kaleidoscope of rituals and symbols, imbedded in every moment, every fiber of these lives.

i have no words for these actions.
i have no words for this ennui.
words seem to only fail me now.

my true name was lost when their gods spoke to mine. a tricky translation. maybe they misunderstood the meaning. now i can’t make sense of these markings and my flesh stinks of futility.

is my breath brackish again from drinking all this holy water?

the ubiquity of myth is playing tricks on me. am i actually starting to stitch together a bespoke belief? that’s the funny part about all that clapping – you never know which spirit you are going to rouse.

(tokyo, japan)

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About Eric Skelton