Golden age, silver, titanium, bronze,
The prophet spoke kindly, and pulled a punch
When he spoke of us, in our modern day,
Iron, mingled with the clay from which we dross.
We're de-volving, yet can't even be
The Noble Savages, whose progeny
We clearly are. We can't seem to cross
Back over or re-enter the chrysalis
That made us err, that dilutes our blood
From demigod to human, but not quite as good
As hominid.

We long for a purity of one kind or the other,
But can't decide which goddess is our mother,
The stars, or Eve, or necessity?
Are we the invention of slavery on earth?
The product of natural selection?
Or a ravel on a kitchen curtain
In the dream of a monk who sleeps
On a tapestried yoga mat,
While a playful Himalayan cat
Bats at the theories, unravels the strings,
And wonders that humans are curious things,
Then nods, and winks, at the Sphinx.

-jenn