….<\/span>There is truth in the empty cup For all that lies empty was once full, <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Where do the cherubs go when they grow old …<\/span>they must gain weight Where do the elect go, ..<\/span>they must start again, and they must talk amongst themselves <\/p>\n <\/p>\n SEAN STEELE<\/strong>: Born in Vancouver, raised on Vancouver Island (Nanaimo). 31 years old. Poet, novelist, musician (records as Mareotis), painter, traveller. Part-time academic, full-time dreamer. PhD student in Humanities at York University. Has an MA in Humanities, a BA in Philosophy and History from Concordia in Montreal, and a music diploma from Vancouver Island University. Currently lives in Toronto. Committed to love, curiosity, and creativity. The eternal optimist. Enjoys the game of living. Celebrates daily. Grateful, alive, and seeking.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" a cup on its side at the edge of a lake in Germany in the late evening one summer as the sun begins to sink below the line of trees to the West and you are sitting on a park… Continue Reading
\n………..<\/span>or might be.
\n……..<\/span>More so if sideways and tracing a
\ndelicate line
\n……….<\/span>of least resistance
\n…………<\/span>trickling to pool in the cracks<\/p>\n
\n……<\/span>all that becomes a story told to friends
\n….<\/span>was once lived
\n…….<\/span>at full speed and with no regard for the
\n..<\/span>last few sips,
\n…….<\/span>overturned in fits of passion
\n……………<\/span>another ballet of mimes on wine,
\n……..<\/span>who, breaking their vow of silence,
\n………..<\/span>toss coins at quiet dancers who move
\n………….<\/span>as if asleep,
\n………….<\/span>as if forlorn,
\n……………..<\/span>though emotions tend to use a soft brush
\nwhich
\n……<\/span>soaks up paint
\n……<\/span>blurs the colour
\n……<\/span>and seeps to form something long since undiscovered<\/p>\nThere must be a basement<\/h1>\n
\n….<\/span>they must go to work
\n…..<\/span>have jobs
\n….<\/span>pay the rent and the heating bill
\n….<\/span>on earth as it is in heaven<\/p>\n
\n.<\/span>and grow weary of the commute
\n…<\/span>or forget a lover\u2019s birthday
\n.<\/span>and fumble in the pockets of their
\njeans, wearing out a little in the seat,
\nlike always,
\n…..<\/span>looking for bus fare and finding only
\na few old feathers
\n……<\/span>from their small wings.<\/p>\n
\n….<\/span>once all the seats in heaven are full
\n….<\/span>they must return
\n….<\/span>as lawyers and accountants and
\n….<\/span>television celebrities<\/p>\n
\nrepeat all that pain of growing,
\nthough even worse this time, because
\n….<\/span>of knowing they’d made it,
\n………….<\/span>once,
\nthat they’d had their chance
\n..<\/span>and blown it
\n…..<\/span>being less righteous than the next guy.
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\nWhere do the gods go,
\n……………<\/span>the tired ones people no longer believe in
\nIs there some waiting room
\n…………….<\/span>full of old magazines and hand sanitizer
\n……………..<\/span>with the radio playing the popular hits of the day
\n……<\/span>full of old gods whose days of
\n……<\/span>sorcery and radiance have passed<\/p>\n
\n…..<\/span>reminisce
\n…..<\/span>play cards and
\n…..<\/span>swap stories
\nof the good old days
\n………….<\/span>when The Gods Ruled The Earth
\n……<\/span>and people lay prostrate before clay figurines
\n….<\/span>when the cherubim were still young and their swords had not yet run out
\nof fuel
\n….<\/span>when heaven was still an empty place
\nwaiting to be filled by a lucky few
\n….<\/span>when people believed
\n….<\/span>and feared things
\n…..<\/span>besides other humans
\n…..<\/span>and the rent
\n…..<\/span>and the bills
\n…..<\/span>and forgetting birthdays
\n…..<\/span>and losing their feathers through
\nthe worn pockets of old jeans.<\/p>\n
\n
\n