The Uncreated

This tale never did take place
Call it metaphor if you must
Though its landmarks all exist to seek
In fact, you might even find them
And the archetypes it brings to light
Have always screamed to be unearthed
Its characters, all fiction
Only the gods are real

Gods are harder to destroy than men
But when they die, they die un-mourned
And the innocent eternal to the ancient at birth
Illuminate insects and suns
As societys vestiges await their decay
Its new gods cling to life
As hastily abandoned as at first they once were embraced
The unbirthed, not spared from death

Modern man was never free from primitive ways of old
Sacrifices, toils, worships, bows before his uncreated
Cultural advances but elaborate a single theme
Forging nothing new, but recreating the uncreated


Every thought, paradigm, mental facet, yes, and even god
The result of evolution, ancient as the primative early mind
In dreams, in nightmares in particular, man sees such artistic, complex actuality
A world of events in unexpected detail, I swear that even Dostoyevsky himself could not have created it

I hang from the ash, body bound, side pierced
Icy rain crawls down my skin
The wind, dirt, and living beings whisper defeat
Forgotten gods cry victory
To comprehend life, you must embrace death
For what the dead, in their silence know
To understand the unquestioned visions of which life consists
Seek not new landscapes, seek new eyes