The Gods of Old

by Ryn Martin

Crying out to the silence the old gods keep,
I ask my questions, but they will not heed.
Left to watch the whole world burn down,
my mind is etched with horrors I cannot unsee.

Where are the gods of old?

When men bear venom in their souls
and sermons sharp on their tongues?
When children scrape the earth for seed,
while tyrants rest on thrones of greed?
When lovers are told they're not enough,
and their life and love are hollow dreams.

Where dwell the gods of old?

What do you ask of us, unseen
you who never answer?
Do the gods ever sleep,
Or do they turn away, cold?
What use are the lives they keep
if they are never there?

So I light a candle and give it to the wind
not for Them, but the broken and dead.
A light against the odds, lest we be forgotten
Where once the gods of old did dwell.

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Faith Poetry Contest contest entry

Just a heads up: The underlying aim for this poem is not to indicate a loss of faith or criticize faith/religion, etc., But instead try to capture the challenge that some have, myself included, to have faith or retain it. In anything - god, gods, hope, etc. - In a world that is often chaotic, painful, very much full of unnecessary suffering.

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