Without the consolation of an end,

the gods are forced perpetually apart;

their unconsoling lifeless draughts upend

enduring principles beyond their art.

Were gods young men betimes? Were they destroyed

in love, in too great actions, turns and twists?

Did these young gods look nerveless, dead, annoyed

with wasted lives and limbs and spattered wrists?

And then the difference, bothersome, would come;

their daring reaching-past would yield old life;

the frenzied beating of their frenzied drum

would blaze unaltered, baffling, through the strife.

And godhood in such climes, disheartening, last,

would kill the final bell, the trumpet's blast.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

From a poem writing situation thing :p

View radanax's Full Portfolio