There are a thousand

living here

in this tiny black

spider crevasse

above the white beaches,

at the edge of Winter’s Shore,

A thousand gods

living and dreaming

in the spaces between

our heaving breaths.

Offer your prayers to these,

the silent,

the fearful

and the broken.

They are the wordless,

slumbering, having long since

fallen asleep

when virtuous lips could

no longer find their names

in their hearts.

But I have stumbled here,

upon their final altar,

and I see how their light

is a skittish thing

dancing away from

their creation

I stand

silent in guilt,

mindful of the beating of my heart

in this dead place,

finding wordless arguments,

tumbling in the air,

telling us stories as only grief

and madness can,

mutterings intelligible

only to the sharp ear, attuned

to the soft despair

of faithlessness.

The others have found escape,

rushing to impale themselves

on outstretched blades,

There to find the gentle peace

of being forgotten.

I feel the swell

of memories

of an older world

where there existed

a thousand names

for the virtuous soul.

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Where swords raised

cut apart the beasts

of our hidden fears,

and we spat out blood

and dust in triumph

over the lonely and shattered world

of dreams.

I can no longer trust in them,

the gods who abandoned us

to this world of hate and shadows.

I have hunted them down

denying their benediction,

seeking plenary relief

in vindictive savagery.

Blood slides down

like fraying thread,

frozen betrayals

encompassed in the look of dismay,

as the thousand fall one by one,

murdered where they lay

by my ruthless blade,

attaining now their final wish,

waiting here at the end of worlds,

in shadowed and contorted rest.

Judgment is offered in profane steel

to these Immortals who dream of death,

as Winter’s Tide slowly rises.

There are now a thousand gasps

death rattles echoing

in this quiet hollow at the end of the World,

with hidden prayers

found in my final brutal worship,

a violent communion

in the quiet jostle

in this tiny black cave

My blade is slick

with the blood of gods

and hope.

and I will rise above this world,

casting my shadow over all.

My apostasy is

my apotheosis

With this

blasphemy,

I am made sacrosanct,

Transcendent,

towering over all,

claiming the crown of the divine

to become

the smallest sliver

of infinity.

I look across the storm-tossed sea,

see the lightning dancing

beyond dark clouds,

brief, violent flashes of light

cutting through the darkness.

I've seen such brutal

despair before:

a world collapsing

in on itself,

then suddenly swell,

like a rising tide.

I see him approach,

hear his anguished scream

resound across the abyss.

Rushing across the waves,

here to avenge his fallen brethren:

the last of the gods.

In answer, I raise my blade:

Salvation.

Wait just a moment longer,

orphans of faith,

This godless world will be beautiful.