Man has often sought the strength of God,

Adam’s purpose rejected for more,

but naught has man looked beyond the throne

of blood in a pointless waltz of war.

I propose we try a different dance,

for if pen is mightier than sword,

when the cosmos clash at the finish,

the weakest author bests the Lord.

We may be puppets to dance and play,

but we choose to dance to our own strings.

Eve and apple, Pandora and box,

what claim do gods have on living things?

But when the pen is drawn and uncapped,

and the man stirs the vantablack sea,

what remains is bid to serve his will,

neither can nor will call itself free.

Flame of Prometheus unconcerned,

for its gift most often burns the page,

and man marvels as its puppets dance,

on their own inescapable stage.

I myself have overseen the quest,

of heroes to the chalice of life,

I decided what there crossed their path,

and how, if ever, they dealt with the strife.

I’ve let Heracles best the lion,

I’ve not let Orpheus raise the dead,

but when Perceus breached the Gorgons,

I let Medusa take off his head.

You cannot say to follow the script,

when those who wrote it did not either,

and if I am caught between two ends,

I can shut the world, opt for neither.

No apple eaten to defy me,

I can choose the pathway fate will bend,

any possibility for me,

I can choose if we will reach the end.

A divine deluge is but nothing

to my eternal bookshelf of graves

for the clarity of a finish

Is the feeling that all feelings crave

As I draw out the mad pen uncapped,

and stir the stormy vantablack sea,

I comfort the villainous notion

that no demons haunt monsters like me.

So if you wish to partake my might,

pick up a pen and stir by by side,

cast each intrusive spell in your mind

even if our worlds never collide.

I am the great architect of worlds,

of the joyful days and fearsome nights,

I am the orchestrator of death,

of all the pages I didn’t write.