A Pretentious Game

Olympus, it was, I was promised.
Denied, they said.
Told me to live amongst men, I was ruled.
Riches, I was to be given.
Only, it never came, in favor of another.
I turned to men I had favored in my reign,
just to be greeted as a stranger.

Without a title for my heir,
inferior, I was to the ones I once looked after.

I stood in my stead as I watched,
people I cared for; be happy with those I couldn’t care less about.

And when they burned me with the fire I gave them,
I drenched myself with the cold water of truth.
Only to realize:
it was but a pretentious game.

And in exile, I thought.
One lives when thy thinks for himself, not others.

Because deeds for others may only be remembered.
Or worse, forgotten.
But deeds for oneself are always well-enjoyed.

Author Notes: Photo by Aleks Magnusson: https://www.pexels.com/photo/empty-road-with-fog-3071474/

Recommend Write a Review Report