Never a mad god

We no longer know of magic.
We whose lives are unseasoned;
No longer kith or kin
To salt and pepper
Or grease and fat
Or sugar and caffeine.
 
We who have cast out all poisons and addictions,
Left with hollow unflavoured lives.
The chicken is no longer roasted
It’s blood is not spilt
and it’s bones no longer thrown into soup
Or cast to scry our fates.
 
All effigies are false affronts
And statues viewed with sanitised hearts
Our circles secular, secluded from superstition and sensing.
The mad god is nothing more
Than an overactive imagination
Birthed from disorders and substance abuse
And masqueraded ‘as a mad god’
From fear of naming it as it truly is.
 
If there is an effect then there must a originating cause.
Nothing is beyond explanation and clinical dissection.
The answer lies in facts and figures and statistics and charts.
 
Whatever thoughts and actions there are,
Whatever questions and answers,
 
It is never a mad god.