gods who forgot how to god

“a prayer from the gods to pray to them”

in a realm beyond faith and celestial flair,
past temples abandoned and incense-less air,
there lies a lounge with marble floors scuffed,
where gods long forgotten gather – aloof and stuffed.

they sip on ambrosia from chipped gold mugs,
wrapped in old tunics, complaining like thugs.
no prayers arrive, no offerings made –
just echoes of hymns that decades decayed.

dyaus pitar sighs, scratching the dome of the sky,
“once the father of gods – now just the why.”
beside him sits veles with a bottle of kvass,
“last prayer i got was for cheaper gas.”

hecate stirs her latte with a bone,
“i used to govern crossroads alone.
now i’m a halloween costume for rent –
or whispered by teens on a witchy lament.”

janus peeks backward, then peers ahead,
“two-faced, they said – now they ghost me instead.”
he juggles a key, a forgotten gate’s shard,
“humans lock doors, but leave gods unguarded.”

bastet curls up with a hiss and a purr,
still gets dms from tumblr’s blur.
“cats still adore me – they just don’t say grace.
unless grace means sleeping on your face.”

priapus chuckles with pride unchecked,
still banned from ads, still hard to forget.
“they worship the bulge in modern disguise –
yet no shrine bears my glorious rise.”

apsara menaka twirls in faded silk,
“from vedic poems to fairness milk.”
no more seduction for heaven’s sake –
just reels, regrets, and a thirst trap break.

nanshe sighs through a haze of dreams,
“justice, orphans – noble themes.
but now my mail’s just therapy memes.”

bran the blessed with a raven-tat sleeve,
“used to guard bridges – now i just grieve.
a bridge once burned is never rebuilt –
unless netflix wants a celtic guilt.”

maruts blow gusts in a forgotten breeze,
“used to storm battles, now we wheeze.
relegated to typos in weather news –
we’re the thunder gods nobody reviews.”

they lounge by the mailbox made of jade,
hoping for letters that never get laid.
sometimes a whisper, or scent of devotion –
but mostly ads from wellness potions.

then out stepped a god with six billion adherents and a beard,
wearing gold-leaf crocs and a gaze slightly seared.
“they beg me for parking, for tinder dates,
and curse my name when they’re five minutes late.

they shout my name in bliss and in war,
even in bed, behind a locked door.
they tattoo crosses but ignore the creed –
and venmo churches far more than they read.”

“you guys have it easy,” he said with a grin,
“no spam, no guilt, no inbox sin.
they pray to me, but never say why-
they just need wi-fi or alibis.”

the old gods muttered, half amused,
half enraged that he wasn’t abused.
forseti mumbled, “they’ve forgotten law.”
while yami blinked, “i forgot awe.”

tangaroa missed the tides of prayer,
now he gets cruise brochures in thin sea air.
itzamna received a wish for an a,
from a kid who failed history anyway.

then thunder cracked as two gods arrived –
their abs and ego equally alive.
zeus in linen, with chest hair bold,
“olympus is dead, but i still sell gold.”

“i’ve got books, cameos, toys for teens,
and fanfics worse than dionysian scenes.”
he sipped ambrosia with netflix foam,
“call me myth – but i’ve built a home.”

then odin appeared with a glint in his eye,
a streaming contract tucked nearby.
“my sons get spin-offs and glorious fights,
while you lot vanish with temple lights.”

“i died twice – but they brought me back!”
said thor, with hammer and protein pack.
“no prayers needed, just box office thrills,
they even made loki pay my bills.”

the old gods rolled their eternal eyes,
jealous of contracts and merchandise.
“hollywood’s altar isn’t the same,”
mokosh muttered, “but it gets you fame.”

“and yet,” said nanshe, “they are not divine,
they’re memes, they’re shirts, they’re party line.
no soul is stirred, no life is saved –
their myths are glossed and stories shaved.”

in a corner, alone, sat dyaus in mist,
holding a telegram from a long-lost priest.
it read: “dear father sky, forgive my doubt.”
he folded it gently, then tossed it out.

ashur cracked a knuckle, ptah fixed his shoe,
olorun tried to remember who was who.
they laughed at memes vritra posted in thread,
“forgotten gods of bharat” – group mostly dead.

from tezcatlipoca to enlil, from lugh to tanit,
each shared a tale where they once lit the planet.
a few get mail once in a year –
a misplaced chant or drunk man’s cheer.

they all glanced up at the astral board,
where the prayer count stayed at zero scored.
and in that silence, despite the jest,
lay divine hearts heavy in chest.

because no god, no matter how wise,
wants empty heavens or prayerless skies.
better to drown in mortal cries
than be a relic nobody tries.

so they lounge, these gods, who forgot how to god,
mocking the heavens, giving fate a slow nod.
but deep in their stillness, each silently yearns,
for a whisper of faith… that never returns.