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. 

Photo by Aleks Magnusson