So many gods but always the same stale joke
played on us in the gardens where gods grow.
In great stone circles and in groves of oak
they’ve suckered in our flesh like mistletoe.
And every god has blessed the world with priests
who made a bloody altar of it all:
a place to flay the unbelieving beasts
‘til they were temples, cleansed and skeletal.
But still some sinners do survive without
a single star to pierce their tenebrous lives.
They read no scriptures yet remain devout
in their belief in Man despite his knives.
I love the godless. I love the way
they go unarmoured into each dark day.
Rob Evans is an aerospace Engineer who lives near London but who works all over the world. When not flying or working, he spends his time writing poetry and sometimes reading it to hushed and not-so-hushed audiences. He is a one-time UK All-Comers Poetry Slam Champion but has since clawed his way back to some kind of respectability.