I
Literature
I STAND WHERE THE GODS ONCE SAT I STAND WHERE THE GODS ONCE SAT
by p.b. wells
I was not born beneath a star.
I was born beneath a scream.
The scream of a mother
who tore me from her body
like an omen carved in flesh,
and the gods watched,
silent, indifferent,
already bored
with their new pet bleeding into the dirt.
They say we were made in their image.
If that’s true,
then the gods be as ugly as we are,
spiteful, angry things
crawling in the dark,
spilling blood to feel something.
They made us for their theater,
stacked grief like mortar between empires,
lit wars like candles,
watched cities burn
like incense before their thrones.
We called it fate.
They called it fun.
I’ve seen the temples,
marble and gold,
the bones of the faithful
ground into the foundations.
Their statues stare down
eyes carved to ignore,
mouths that never speak,
but I hear them.
I hear them laughing
every time a child dies for a cause
the gods no longer remember inventing.
You want worship?
You want songs?