The gods are dead

My schizophrenia made its own world in my mind. This is how it all began, and my mind's explanation of what happened to the gods.

He has a name
A face
A body
But I won't speak of his name. Out of respect, for the dead.

He was the one that created all we see, know, and all we don't. He was the one that lost the one he loved, because one night she left on a whim. He was the one father to us all, before his soul was smashed by his first eight children. The night before, however, his love spoke to him. Poisoned him, his convictions, his pride. She spoke of his death and told him to create. She whispered a willing song with a wailing of a mermaid. And he fell.

His eight first children saw it in him. He taught them his convictions, his rules. And they saw straight away he was poisoned. But they were truly his children. When he exposed himself, as he had never before, they smashed his soul on the ground like a dog: just as he planted a seed of himself. And the gods continued watching the worlds by the creator, without the creator. This seed bore a child, that after four-teen one-thousand and five year periods, give or take twelve years more, returned to those gods.

This child, still felt the loss of his Love. It was a fragment of the creator. And yearned for her every age that passed. Childishly, one day he became angry. The gods feared him, and their only willed act in those fourteen odd thousand years, was to hide it from him. But when he was secluded one day, he remembered his own death, and the "gods". He returned to them, they feared him; sure, he was just a fragment of the creator, but that was many countless times stronger than his own children.

And so he cut them down.

Author's Note

Not really to be taken seriously, ignore mistakes. Started out as a poem in my head but prose worked better.

Reviews

[Ashley]

I like your poem, its very creative.

[GwenLark]

I really liked it. It was like being in a dream. Good job

[Mac. S]

Thanks, I do appreciate it.