Mythopoeia

You spoke of the dying and reviving god.
That paradign of mythic tale.
The cycle of winter into spring, replayed
in fantasies. The king is dead.
Long live the king.

I tried to grasp a moment, too elusive;
caught a glimpse of chaos
I could not accept.
"I'm wiser now" you whisper but
our eyes still linger on the hero.

Remember all the stories, becoming
but a single act, and us the players,
heroes and redeemers all.
And heralded by whispered
cries of mourning.

I felt the devil on my back, he told me
order lay between his fingers.
Ash grey skin becoming fertile soil.
His truths cost more than souls afford.

This story is the real one.
The killing frost, the budding bloom.