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.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  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.