In The Name Of Mithras

He has been drowning for two thousand years.

His sword was not enough to sate the gods,
nor blood sufficient innocent to slake
their thirst. In the name of Mithras, he gave
his cloak to orphaned bears; hung his silver
rings on ears of corn; threw his golden torc
into the sun and dedicated his
last breath to blowing out the lantern moon.

Those that followed and mocked his baptism,
by not paying the cold coin of life, knew
nothing of the otherworld, where all deeds
were mirrored and the only light wrested
from the blazing hearts of heroes. So close:
he stood dripping in the haar, as his frame
grew thinner with each turn of the neap tide.

I lift his head free of the silt and hold
one bony hand in mine. All else is gone
to mud; whatever sacrifice he made
proved vainglory. Even his bonds are lost.
The crabs and fish that ate his sacrament
of flesh did not care how well they were blessed.