Gods Never Die

A short, free-styled poem in monologue form about the nature of consciousness and reality.

Gods never die; they only change form.

Sometimes, with enough effort, we can forget an idea; but that doesn't mean that everyone else can.

And it especially doesn't mean that someone else won't think it up in the daunting years to come.

We are mere creatures of habit, are we not?

And, if not, then we are but weavers of a fiction formidable; are we not?

What strange creatures we ourselves are; we strive for both more and less than the confines of humanity.

Desperate, we forge cancerous destinies and tainted dreams; this is but who we are.

So what of our ideas? 

Shackled demons, fighting for existence. Earthbound angles, struggling to soar once more.

Our meager and befleshed form, but a prison of consciousness.

Is it we who form reality, or merely them in our guise?

What strange creatures; so much more and so much less.

Ideas may guide us, but is it not we who hold the keys to their fortress?

Their Valhalla; their Tartarus; their Nirvana.

We are but third-bit jailers, policing the same prison to which we are ourselves both lost and confined.

We are free from all; 

except ourselves.