They always ask about the last one, don’t they?
A horrendous thing.
Is enlightenment truly worth it when it eats at you?
When the dozens-
No, the hun-
Don’t be foolish.
You killed thousands, haven’t you?
(… right?)
And it truly began the day you arrived,
To be crowned amongst the bones and carrion.
A deathly quiet pall cast over those who awaited you,
An audience of ambition already decided on your annihilation.
The old masters didn’t believe you. Thought of you as a cheat.
You couldn’t have been truly chosen by Him, not above theirs.
Their son, their daughter, given over to your uncompromising slaughter.
These old men decided on the same,
That they would join them. Fast and furious, they flew toward you and fought.
Hands. Feet. Fists.
Failure.
A horrendous thing.
They were storms, and you were Stone.
Hands broke upon your visage, and feet floundered to find their mark.
You showed who amongst the old masters was an open hand,
And who was the closed Fist needed for conquest.
You culled.
You killed.
And then your body sang the song of thunder and lightning,
From the crown of your head to the tips of your toes.
Oh, how the woe came to a great crescendo.
How the crowd backed away, parted like a sea of strife,
In the wake of your frustration, your anger, your holy word,
No more wanted to pay the bloody tithe.
A horrendous thing.
The body sang for more.
More.
More.
M O R E.
So you sank your teeth, your fangs,
Into the flesh and fought unprompted.
Unburdened by any form of mortality,
And in that moment, the communes came to see…
Him.
His word.
All wrapped up in you.
The only thing they would ever come to fear.
Living, breathing, thinking people
To add,
To the carrion, to adorn your tilted crown with entrails twisted and turned.
When it was finally quiet,
You looked around and gave witness to your new kingdom.
Your empire of sand, of dirt, of a rule so iron-fisted, all too curt.
And came to the true enlightenment, greater than any sort of future rule…
For the first time,
You truly felt the hurt.
The harm. The world. The woe.
It all came crashing down,
Right as your teacher’s fist did.
A battering ram toward the wreath of purple and gold.
Hammering down over and over and over AND OVER AND-
Buzzing, the back of your brain, your head,
A culmination of cold-blooded brutality and murder toward an enlightenment of equal elimination, toward a pillar headed unto eternity, HELD UP BY THOSE WHO CAME BEFORE AND THOSE WHO WILL COME AFTER-
T H E W O R L D
A N D T H E W O E
W I L L
TAKEYOUTHOUGH
OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND-
Stop.
The memory comes to a close.
They really need to stop asking you about the last one.
Rarely does anyone need to hear a tale of godhood,
For nobody needs such visions of grandeur.
Becoming a god kills a man.
And being the latter is a much better, much more enjoyable fate,
Than living any life full of murder, conquest, and hate.
