The Hour of New Myths
by Shawn Allen
I hear the voices calling me forward –
Voices familiar, and dangerous.
At once, I am seduced by their visions
Of power and beauty, and I am filled
With fear for the sacrifice required.
Where once was a man
Now stands a quaking child,
Unsure of himself.
Days and nights move in a frenzy,
Blurred into meaninglessness.
I know I am walking toward death.
My skin is moving away.
No one walks with me, none could.
This is the loneliest of roads,
This dirge-trail of accepted destiny.
Shades gibber and bellow
From somewhere out of sight.
I gather sticks for the pyre
And carry them on my back.
I have the flint
I am the tight pinecone
Requiring fire to release
The seed of new growth.
Through fear and doubt, I travel.
I do not speak, no words relate.
I listen to the sound of voices,
The call of psychopomps
Leading me on.
It is time for the old story to burn.
I am a Storyteller,
And the hour of new myths is near.