Flayed from a torturous ploy
the flesh of mind falls to disarray,
revelation’s cusp over abyss and lust
confers in determination,
of a tenuous soul bereft of certainty
or some modicum of destination.
Gods chatter in idle conflict,
disavowed of righteous paths,
seeing not what the clouds impart,
as burgeoning ecliptic storms,
when minds are sewn with trepidation,
and human hearts are sworn.
An ethos lays in wait,
a decision Gods cannot abate,
for all its weight on humankind,
the storms far worse in retribution
for careless, godless acts of spite,
perpetrated against themselves.
What shall be, a throw of dice,
to rectify this human plight,
or do Gods too chaste to consider
the paltry, squirming, driven lives
that speaks not of heart but flesh,
and blood the essence of souls adrift?
Tony DeLorger © 2019
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