Of Immortals and Tyrannicide

 Dear gods,  

You cannot ask me to carve sigils and sacrifices of my body and not dream of murder. A mess of bone.  Of something. Of sinew. 

You cannot ask for offerings and tomes of prayer and not make me remember the burning cities bearing  your name.  

Dear God, 

You cannot ask me for my Saviors of all, my children and not make me bleed every time a nail is  hammered down. Down into splintering skin, crackling wood.  

You cannot lead me to believe that your legions of divinities and immortals follow you willingly. Not  when their harvested ichor gave way to the worlds you slapped your name upon. The realm of Creation  that was the spoils of the War of Seven Days. You cannot change the reality of your being; a common  coward hiding behind the guise of an ordinary emperor.  

Dear gods,  

When the others tried to help us, did you see yourselves in them? Did you see them; naïve and innocent,  trying to change what Olympus, Inderlok, Heaven stood for? To right everything you touched? 

Everything you ‘made’ to be? 

Dear gods, 

Did you make Prometheus, Ravana, Lucifer out of the ashes only to condemn them? Only to glorify  yourselves as royalty of a despotic paradise up above and as death of everything below? 

Not even you can be perfect.  

After all,  

you  

made 

us 

in 

your 

image.

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