Letter From An Old God

Dear beloveds, let me go.
My hands are too frail to rip souls from failing bodies,
and my voice is dry leaves rustling on sidewalks, where
once a single syllable could rupture mountains. My lion
heart quiver in fear of asbestos and agent orange,
Diet Coke and Diebold counters. My tusks were filed to
stumps centuries ago, covered by a mortal's skin,
my glowing testicles prudely tucked away, erased by
eons' fear of potent pride.

Manicured and manufactured for mass love, I no longer
know your names, what you love, how you mate,
what terrors makes you scream into the night.
I no longer hear you hammer hymns into the sunset,
nor smell the sweat of rutting, the blood of birth.

So please, it is time, let me sleep the sleep of kings,
turn me into quaint seasonal sales in display windows,
where my brothers have gone before me, or let me slip
like my sisters, unnoticed into a word that nobody
can clue origin.

And if you will, if you're still around to glance back,
dig me out in clay sediments a millennium from this day
and wonder who I was.