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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