We yoke God like an ox,
rough hew the tree of life
and place it on his back
and make him drag it
through the streets
and up a hill. We feast
upon the liver of Prometheus
bound to a mountainside,
a Eucharist of viscera.
What manner of beast are we,
that eats the meat we eat.
Our diet of the divine
divides us from those
content with grass
or those that feed upon grass.
What deficiency makes us crave
the flesh of gods? Truly
we must be clay, or less than clay,
to think we make ourselves
human this way.
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