Saturnalia Poem by T.R. James Bray

Our night sermon
hovers still on the air.
Frees our slaves,
breaks the hourglass and
transmits a message to our ancestors.
On this abbreviated day
let us no longer be afraid of the darkness,
but celebrate the shadows and fall
entirely
into revelry of the concealed truth.
Where infant gods, born of stone, scare away spirits.
The dark zone of our candles
radiate
an appreciation of the cycles.
Moving us
past the shadow of the slaughter stone
into a bluestone oval
with songs sang to Mithra, as she extinguishes wishes
with her breath.
Yule logs rage a fury
over darkened forests, as shadows dance
on the coniferous wall.
Acting out ancient rituals
witnessed by pagan priests
and the monster who continuously consumes