Upon the brink of epiphany
stands the once cherished
emperor of youth now witness
to the senile ageing
of truth that watches
lies dye the parchment
with invisible ink sinking
into skin to root and spore
like a sore on the heart of man
whose blood floweth over,
whose good grasped too far
to free him from himself
and whose greatest loss
was found crossed out
on the checklist of the gods,
the gods, the gods,
they never did stop rutting
in the clouds and shitting
in the sea, their penchant for
snorting poppy fields no
relief for their ennui as
they stare down lugubriously
and make themselves in our image
to pass epochs and aeons,
anthropomorphically granting
grace and providing providence
when needs must they save face
and credit for deeds just so
the human race who must know
the demon in the seed they sow.