We are all gods
In one hand holding creation
In the other, destruction
Fist closed, blood seeping through finger gaps
Unable to hide the truth
Of which hand we prefer
We are not God
That is amalgamation
Alchemical assimilation
The wise and the violent
All things to all people
Vanilla, lukewarm, dairy-free
Now, the gods claim God
The promise of power
Through subservient facade
Though chosen, set apart
Still they favor the hand
Gripping the sword
Burning all the bushes
They are what they are
OVERVIEW AFFECTED 