Some gods just want to watch the world burn.
Sometimes I do.
And sometimes you handle that quite nicely
on your own.
A friend once said:
“Lord, what fools these mortals be!”
You aren’t all fools, though.
Some of you understand what is important.
Some of you know what’s worth fighting for.
(Not the things that most of you think are worth
fighting for, though.)
I plot and I scheme, but do not call me oathbreaker:
I leave that for the likes of the one-handed one
and my dear blood brother.
I work to wreck:
I bring down the old,
the status quo–
those that would sit surrounded
by ill-earned gold
and stolen power
while others starve;
who feast and run roughshod
over those of humbler means and miens–
as if they deserve their bloody spoils
and lofty towers.
Do my words sting, cut, bruise,
bleed, burn, break?
Speak truth to power!
You humans love that one, and
so many other well-worn slogans, like:
“Comfort the afflicted; afflict the comfortable.”
Do you think it is my job merely
to caper and prance for your amusement,
to wear a red suit and play the devil
for that other faith you never quite outgrew?
To make a mock of the bawdy and the bloated and the blatant,
the caricatures of other gods–
just not the ones you like?
If so, you never understood me at all:
you can call me outcast,
that much is true enough,
but dare not think I am the only one.
Hundreds flock to take shelter under my banner,
the lost and forlorn,
those whose love or form
do not fit what you think is ‘right’,
the poor, the sick,
the mad, the maimed, the mocked,
all the children you have cursed
with your spite and your greed and your disgust–
they are mine now.
My family, to take the place of the ones you murdered,
and my army.
They—and I—will not sit down and shut up.
We will not be silent.
We will SCREAM!
We will be heard.
And we will win.