All days are holy, to the forgotten gods;
All ground is holy, to the forgotten gods.
Forgotten Gods, Unknown gods, never known gods.
We see their cracked faces in ancient pottery, painted on flaking walls;
We see them left in stone carvings and torn manuscripts — unreadable.
We see them in the deer eye that looks back at us, reflecting our headlights
— before it darts away into the night.
In the deep green silence of a backyard drenched with rain
— breaking with a dog bark behind bushes.
In concrete thrones that decay next to the sidewalk
— that no one looks at as the buses rumble to a stop.
Their battles have spilled over the ground, their blood long dried,
Their stories told only in mostly forgotten dreams,
Their eyes seeing between the pinpoints of long dead starlight.
Wherever we walk, claiming that we are the first in a day, in a week, a month, a year, a decade, a millennium, or an infinity, their footsteps are underfoot.
[Elizabeth Davis is a second generation writer living in Dayton, Ohio. She lives there with her spouse and two cats — neither of which have been lost to ravenous corn mazes or sleeping serpent gods. She can be found at deadfishbooks.com when she isn’t busy creating beautiful nightmares and bizarre adventures. Her work can be found in Eerie River Publishing Patreon July 2020, Novel Noctula Issue 2, and Helios Quarterly Vol 4, Issue 4.]