behind the curtain

the sacrifice once made will not be heard
there's no one at the switchboard any more
the mountaintop's deserted for no word
will cross the water now to that far shore
the heroes and the craven all are gone
the river's dry and nothing moves but dust
no matter now what games were lost or won
or who was sloppy nor of who was fussed
there are accounts that no one ever saw
the givers of orders nor the shining ghosts
that priests not gods were makers of the law
and statuary no more than wasted posts
still it's not easy to confront without any dread
the shocking fact that all the gods are dead