I wasn’t alive until I hit sixty-five.

Born without food a diaper or a bed of straw,

I wanted to know who did this to me, but

couldn’t display pain to the makers. I swore

someday I’d make them pay for what they did to me.

Until then, I paid the price like everyone else.


All through the years, I wracked my brain

while I sweated and worked the only way

I knew how. No skills were bestowed upon

me by the architects. I couldn’t sing, color,

or draw, but to think, I could think, and


that ability became a great gift, and I thought

how to make the powers who gave me a

life of worry and work to pay for what they

did. The world they made is dog eat dog,

but if it became nirvana for everyone who

lived, those up above would lose everyone


of the prayers sent to them. Petitions to make life

better for the oppressed, the sick, the weak, the poor.

Without the mental energy created by those begging

for help from the Deities, they’d lose clout when people

realized prayers sent up above were turned into

energy that the Gods ate to stay alive. As devotions died,

so did the weaker Gods, and with so few prayers


the surviving Gods turned into dogs and had to act

like humans and heaven became a dog eat dog place,

just like Earth. Without a paradise to offer, the immortals

lost it all and became mere men who had to work as I

did. I became boss, and every surviving Idol worked for me.

I was as kind to them as they were to me and didn’t mind if

they didn’t eat or keep warm when I sent them out

in the cold to shovel snow even though they were old.


At sixty five I became like a God,

and those that once were divine

tried to fight back with threats

and curses,  but they didn’t

have a prayer because they

were just too damn drained

from eating requests for years

and never responding.




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