1: Of The Void

Towards the edge of that crackling, black precipice that was the Void where starry, black, and burnt shards of the existence twisted clotted into the thickness of life; old gods rose from the liquescence that was star-fire and metal. The Void saw this and yawned wider attempting to swallow that which crawled from its maw, but the gods resisted, Helmet, Cin, Jupiter, and other names whom the webbed stars might recall pressed their advanced against the Void, concealing it:

Without blood and song, 
Banners fallen.
No gods to sing with metal, 
forges in the dusk
Cut through the flame, 
the end of someday
Without blood and song
Came the end of void. 

2: Of The Gods

The gods bled endlessly from the struggles with the Void whereupon that which was desperate, heavy, and wild might be tamed and molded beneath the juxtaposed forces who claimed themselves both final and infinite. And the gods bled, screamed after their wars: no reason with which to hold us back, except that possibility which lurks beyond the darkest edges of reason and fear, Void himself, sunken within the deepest hemispheres of The Nether spaces. From blood and song, continuously spinning, until there was no more music, when the tiniest piece of cerulean possibilities came to be. 

Brave, bold, and beautiful were the viridescent trees which covered its skin, the woods like a brittle hair; the oceans which crawled with hungry beasts and plentiful, crystalline immenseness that’d become the womb of creation and the Proteus coveted with the utmost, possessiveness as his domain. The jewels and bones which soon littered the dark nethers below sea and sky were taken unto Helmet’s custody where he wallowed in the pleasures of all that fell through the mouth of death to his waiting grips; and even the other gods feared Helmet. Cin, whose beauty and charm were cast in the immortal, undying, and unwilling, saw nothing but Promethean horrors within the kingdoms below. 

And the gods screamed: 

Helmet’s reign
Filled with blood and song. 
Take up arms,
Take the Helmet,
or no gods will sing again. 
Without blood and song,
And the Helmet tumbled,
Into the Void, forever.  

[Maxwell I. Gold is a Jewish American multiple award nominated author who writes prose poetry and short stories in cosmic horror and weird fiction with half a decade of writing experience. Four-time Rhysling Award nominee, and two-time Pushcart Award nominee, find him at www.thewellsoftheweird.com.]