Lower your weapons,
I am neither friend –
Nor foe.
Merely a speaker of prophecy.
A wayward cryptid,
Fallen from grace millennia ago.
When I slew my fellow god-kin,
During Ragnarok.
Believe me,
I know my weakness.
Show me the way.
Feeding on this ichor,
Black venom I retch,
Spitting venom,
Drinking poison.
How many times –
Have we sacrificed ourselves for progress?
Tired of shepherding mortals.
Sick of keeping them safe,
When they’re actively pushing,
Towards their own destruction.
Seek slumber,
Dream the infinite dream.
Where infinite hunger,
Is finally sated.
Completely surreal,
Subconscious flows forth,
Against our will.
Lucid dreaming,
Would be a blessing.
One day.
One year.
I work my plans in cycles,
Sometimes rolling into decades –
These words,
An only memoriam –
Proof I ever existed,
Across multiple lifetimes.
Merely A Speaker Of Prophecy.
