They duke it out. They’re thoughts,
Names, signs, memes. It’s a war
Of the kind, All of x
Is at war. You know, like
Life, mind. When one form starts
To feast on a like form,
Yes, once in a while, that’s
The end for prey or host
(Which is which is just size).
But, by and large, it’s time
For an arms race. The prey
Grow shells; the ill hosts start
To build a blood-borne force
Of white cells and T-cells.
The same for thoughts, the same
For gods. When it looked like
The tide was out, to Matt,
That long roar was not spent.
It was piled-up force. Now,
When that force breaks the cliffs,
We tend to think the gods
Will crush us as they did
Of old, the tide will sweep
All else from the Earth. No.
New stage in the old race.
Gods rush back? Take flight fast.
