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

And tinder.

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.

Burning pine cones