These stories told and told across the ages

are listened to and tell of times

when gods and mighty kings and queens

dabbled with our ordinary lives.

These stories come from fading memories

trying to remember what was true.

Some were sung by poets

who made versions of their own

and passed them on as history.

What matters though

is what we hear beyond the words,

what tingles as we listen,

what throbs when we are told

of rages, jealousies, deceits,

the way they, too,

muddled in their heavens

above us all.

Stars, your constellations are only

what we want to see.

We put them there

with our astronomy

and now I know Orion’s belt

and dippers spanning distances

beyond my comprehension.

And if, one day, someone should ask,

why did Sisyphus come to bear his stone,

who will tell the truth?

Who will hear my words,

and if they do,

not question what I said

about my punishment?

Or, if they hear the versions

of a poet who has told of me,

who knows what truth or lie

will live?

I’ve learned we all live myths--

half truths of who we are.

The stories we pass on,

the versions we create,

the masks we wear as our identity

are partly fiction

based on truth

but grow into mythologies

by tellers we don’t know.

We, too, are kings and queens

who muddle in our heavens

deep inside.

We struggle with the powers

we possess.

We grope to do what’s best

but dangle in the darkness

of our ignorance.

We dabble with our ordinary lives

and rage like gods to take control

and rule our kingdoms deep inside

for years and years.

Who knows,

as Time goes through the sky

what tale they’ll tell of me and you,

what lie?