Children of the Gods

The rain hammered
across the forefront
of informed reality,
inside each catatonic
being fell to the whim
of the unknown.
“Rather this,” they cried
in their thousands,
“than deal with the lies
we live each twilight.”
Crow calls find
dominion in the dusk
and soon they start
to see the cracks
in all they claim is their own.
Demon spawn
and false prophets,
bickering children
misleading the brave
with celebrities who
cannot see past
their own gravitational pull.
Hostile black holes,
draining the inner light
of our whole future.
Blankly they stare
through the truths
of our beings to nothing,
they are too primitive
to understand.
If the gods exist
do they look down
from singular heavens,
like elitists claiming
grandeur over life itself,
or as the experience
of ancient ages bring,
do they forgive
the innocent foolishness
of the species they create.
Happily laughing
“The very young
do not always do
what they are told.”
Knowing that in the great
scheme of universal aeons
it all becomes right in the end?
Children of the gods,
beauty outlasts the dark,
when you stay true to the way.

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© Phen Weston 2014

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