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Oh, the Divine Do Play Their Games With Us
Prose Poetry
Do you have a death wish?
The words are more than a hurricane wind battering against a shack on the coast. It feels like one gust will just blow everything over, a disaster zone ready to be constructed in the aftermath. How can you fight back when even just the barest of touches will result in harm that can’t be undone?
We’re just ants to the gods up on high. Oh, how they love to crush us beneath their thumbs.
Don’t mock them. Don’t dare insult them. Don’t break the rules.
You know better. You know better. You know better.
Life is one bruise that won’t fade. Every single day becomes a scar after a year or so passes. Being human seems like such a futile thing. You don’t know what happens after death, but how can there be any guarantee it will be better than this — the uncertainty, the squalor, the endless beat of lives being snuffed out as if they are nothing but candle flames in the great expanse of the universe.
If the Divine are watching, how can They sit still? Such power — yet such apathy.
You tell yourself it is just the hollowness in your stomach. You don’t mean what you think — are your thoughts even your own? — but they feel damning as if they will summon a…
