While I plan to continue rounding up old notes and reviewing interesting ideas, my initial goal with this blog was to get comfortable with creative writing to ease back into a larger world-building project I’ve had on the back-burner for years now. The working name for the project I have in my head currently is “Wardens of the Wyrd”. This poem is just a bit of color for the reader looking into the mechanics of how a certain piece of this world works.

In this world, there are entities which common people refer to as gods. These gods present themselves in the ways which mythology has made us most accustomed, but in short, they are essentially 4-dimensional aliens manipulating human affairs to indirectly sway the outcome of a conflict that will decide the fate of the universe.

These “gods” are often powerful in the many ways which one would might expect a god to be and they exist in a way that makes their perception of time and potential outcomes much more powerful than ours. Despite these immense powers, the gods themselves are dependent on the perception of sentient beings. Human consciousness is essentially the medium through which these entities are able to warp reality to their will, and thus they require belief to maintain their godhood.

When worship of a god diminishes, so does its power, and eventually its very existence. For gods to survive, they need a constant influx of belief, worship, and sometimes, sacrifice. There are a variety of ways in which gods survive when they run out of worship, such as becoming an aspect of another god, choosing a totem or avatar, or simply descending to the existence of a mortal and creating a “divine” bloodline.

The following poem follows the refusal of a god to become anything less than godly, despite no longer being believed in.

Resolution of a Forgotten God

I will not weather such strange tomorrows, 
with lilting laws and long-drawn sorrows,
of sordid sundries and  and sublunar hallows,
where immortals hang from weightless gallows,
        To gamble on base Dreams.

Gods do not plea and do not beg,
nor drink their draught from vulgar dregs,
we do not walk on drunken legs
        That bargain just to Be.

The mortal plunge is the coward's route,
To drown rather than cast about,
To sink 'neath waves without way out,
        Imprisoned in an endless Sea.

A plane should not become a line,
And space means naught without its time,
I shan't reduce this godhood mine,
        But rather face Eternity.

-WellTree