Those that came before.

Through the ash cloud, so dead and Gray,
Sunbeams, the remnants of night washed away.
But the wisps whispered, scurrying together all,
For the last of the proud hath taken a fall.

The First to Dream, the Creators of Here,
Paradise, their pet project mere,
To pierce the veil, made naked by Ruth,
To break the twin illusions of Logic and Truth.

None, save Them, saw through the mist of Lust, Greed,
Some hearts, some minds, differentiating want from Need.
Immortals they were, had no use of such,
The walls had held them from far too much.

Walls of Reality, they knocked down brick for brick,
Space singularized, Time slowed down to a tick.
Not bound by the dimensions any more,
pervaded all, soul, bond, our lore.

They moved through the Brahman, bending space, time, and will,
The rules of reality, all severed, until,
They fell, each one, through Fire and Brimstone,
For the sins of their creations they had to atone.

Thus fell the Proud, killed by what they had made,
These "Gods", the created, again followed the path laid.
They created Light, The waves they crested.
And then, on the Seventh Day,

They rested.

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