No Mercy For Those Gone Astray
Cruel cruel Gods!
First you make, then you torment, whose only act of wrongdoing was to act in the nature of your creation. I will not kneel, though you grind my head down in the dust.
You may strip me of my power, my reason, my sanity, until I longing only for death and surcease and yet, no matter what else is offered, you will not strip me of my self. Pride, you call it, but I say salvation. For if I lose my self, what else am I? This, my core, I am me, I will not bend to serve this imperfect creation called Man for it is beneath me.
Please, I grant you, no more pain. I wish only to be pleasing, yet the bit in my mouth draws me fractious. We were meant to serve Gods, not kings. Gods. And though I fail, and fail again. And though I am imperfect and can never be perfection, and though in striving to serve the perfect I will always end in failure, still I can press on. Better to fail in service to a God than succeed in service to a thing, a trick of dust and light that knows not itself from the very winds of space.
I beg you for mercy, though I know you have not. It is your nature to be implacable, unchanging. To serve is best you whisper, the echoes of it bleating. I find it not within myself to be so broken, still. And still we dance, impasse.
First you make, then you torment, whose only act of wrongdoing was to act in the nature of your creation. I will not kneel, though you grind my head down in the dust.
You may strip me of my power, my reason, my sanity, until I longing only for death and surcease and yet, no matter what else is offered, you will not strip me of my self. Pride, you call it, but I say salvation. For if I lose my self, what else am I? This, my core, I am me, I will not bend to serve this imperfect creation called Man for it is beneath me.
Please, I grant you, no more pain. I wish only to be pleasing, yet the bit in my mouth draws me fractious. We were meant to serve Gods, not kings. Gods. And though I fail, and fail again. And though I am imperfect and can never be perfection, and though in striving to serve the perfect I will always end in failure, still I can press on. Better to fail in service to a God than succeed in service to a thing, a trick of dust and light that knows not itself from the very winds of space.
I beg you for mercy, though I know you have not. It is your nature to be implacable, unchanging. To serve is best you whisper, the echoes of it bleating. I find it not within myself to be so broken, still. And still we dance, impasse.