Written in blood,
runic and carved,
the words of a prophet,
foretold of the Earth.

Of man’s rise and fall.
Of his towering ego.
Of human existence,
spurned on by libido.

It said, too,
one day he would end,
into darkness descend,
devoured by that,
which once birthed him.

Between one and the other,
was an epic of wonder,
of whimsy and intrigue,
betrayal and greed.

What more could one ask for,
from prophet or fortune,
but to blaze like a star,
rise like a mountain,
then sink again,
into ever present night,
from a reality that bore it,
into a long goodnight?

Nothing.
Nothing,
it’s said,
and so forever be it.
For if we must be tempered,
by darkness for greatness,
who are we to pick and choose?
No-one
for these are the whims,
of the cosmic re-balance.