Within Range

Original artwork by Anthony Silva

Lights covering buildings.
As they fade out the message is clear:
Now, stacks of jesters, jacks,
and kings are crumbling.
Flood gates have opened
Gods, once thought untouchable,
have dropped from their thrones
trekking through dirt
with the rest of us.

Disenfranchised. Disillusioned.

Still, I listen to my king's words,
"Take apart your head."
—I do.
Only to see my spirit fleeting,
flowing from me. Finally
fed up with festering.

My sad messiah speaks,
"people's hands have worked together
to make up the parts of you."
What am I now that those hands
are crimson colored?

I am an amalgamation of the gods,
but if they are false
what am I?
Am I false?
Do I try dressing old gods
in new skins?
Does Dionysus become Bacchus?
Or do I find new gods?
As my holey spirit seeps
am I an empty vessel
left with stains surrounding
the mountain I spent so
much time staring up to?

Or now am I fragile and free? 
Forever stripped down to my  
bare bones— my cage exposed.  
For the first time I can shed
my manipulated skin. 
For the first time I can grow
my own flesh, become something
fresh — a whole self
past pretending and become
my own savior.    

For more by Anthony Silva visit @replicayouth