Steps Poem by Gary Witt

who was the first to stand,
brushing ancient dust
from calloused knees,
to walk from the golden calf
vowing never to return?

were emptiness and fear
in those steps; were
resentment and loathing?
or did choirs of seraphs
beckon in harmony,
herald that departure,
and mark that path
with the petals of
celestial flowers?

who was the first to turn
his back on Delphi
and bid Apollo farewell?
were his steps faltering,
shoulders stooped, head bowed
in remorse and bitterness?
or did he hear the sound
of trumpets and ecstasy,
as he marched in measured steps
from the ruined temple?

and now, what now?
now that heavenly voices
are silenced,
and we listen only to God’s
slinking, soundless departure,
what shall take the place
of this erstwhile spirit
now a shade
squeezed by science
and the economics of apathy?

what shall survive God’s absence
but our yearning to believe?

shall we stand then
on pudgy knees,
plump and dimpled,
and trudge away
sorrowfully
in search of Nothing?

shall we wait,
alone and fearful in the quiet,
praying for random comfort
and mercy in happenstance?

shall we seek some ideal,
attributed once to someone
outside ourselves and separate;
an ideal not given to us,
nor given away;
not lost,
but remaining unknown;
misplaced for a time,
locked away, forgotten
in the person of humanity,
perhaps now to be reclaimed
in the rush of wind,
the faces of clouds,
and bending waves of light?