A God Without A Kingdom

the stench of desperation
clung to him
like a bad habit,
a perpetual cloud
of defeat that followed
him from one shitty job
to the next.
he was a god,
or at least he thought he was,
but the universe
didn't seem to give a damn.
It just kept spinning,
a cold,
indifferent wheel of chance,
while he scrounged around
for scraps.

there were universes
begging for gods,
begging for someone
to give them meaning,
to imbue them
with purpose.
but no, he was stuck
in this one,
this dull,
grey world
that seemed to suck
the life out of him
with every passing day.
he wandered the streets,
a forgotten deity,
searching for work
that would never come.

the bars were his temple,
the whiskey his sacrament.
he'd sit there,
nursing a drink,
and wonder what the hell
had gone wrong.
he'd created worlds,
for Christ's sake.
he'd brought light
to the darkness,
hope to the hopeless.
but now,
he was just another face
in the crowd,
another loser looking
for a break.

the people around him
were blind,
oblivious to the fact
that they were in the presence
of greatness.
they'd glance at him,
then look away,
dismissing him
as just another bum.
but he knew the truth.
he knew that he was a god,
a god without a kingdom,
a god without a people.

he'd try to tell them,
to shout it
from the rooftops,
but they'd just laugh,
or worse,
ignore him.
do he'd sit there, alone,
and drink,
and wonder
why he bothered.
why he bothered to hang
around this universe,
looking for work,
looking for meaning,
when there were others
out there,
begging for him to come
and bring them to life.

but he couldn't leave.
he was stuck,
stuck in this rut,
stuck in this world.
and so he'd drink,
and he'd dream,
and he'd wonder what
could have been,
if only he'd been born
in a different time,
in a different place.
if only he'd been born a god,
instead of just a guy
looking for work.