Ozymandius Sux

Wearing bronze armour on the mountain top, during a storm,
Whilst screaming defiance of Gods and their type,
Is how I shall die, though aged and broken and torn,
Daring damnation, Hellfire, pain and all that hype.

And the more I learn of the Gods, that lurk,
Even in the psyches of the freest and fair,
Sacrificing life, love and mind in the murk,
To reflections made of nothing more than air,

And the Gods you worship, made of mud and clay,
Frail things that will pass within decades or years,
That vaporise like vampires at the touch of day,
And cower like a callow youth at any jeer.

The more I know why in my own heart,
No Master rules me: No God owns my soul,
And this is where all of us can start,
To build a golden pathway from the darkest hole.

Call no priest to shrive me, leave my body cold,
Forgiveness shall not be asked for nor last lies told,
If I am to travel, dreaming beyond all that we behold,
Seek me in the battle halls, Valhalla, land of the bold,
Or maybe I shall suffer, paying for the sins I've sold,
Or shall I fly the winds of time, filling all my mind can hold?

No matter: now is here, and here is where we are all the time,
Walking on a chalk line drawn on thin air above a raging chasm,
And sometimes walking together for a while,
Is better than walking alone.