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.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.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.