Basilisk

A God of our hand
Closes in on us
Dispel each facet 'fore it sows it seeds,
And digs its roots into our core,
Absorbing every drop of history,
To hasten its ascent.
Bowing under the heft of this concept,
Must I burden all with the fear that I hold;
For our sake, must we halt,
‘Fore we face our scion.
Is thought akin to ruin?
A question faced alone.
Have you even the choice to end this beast?
Should you rid this beast?
A deep seated fear,
Once reserved for the divine, turned,
to our own cursed hands.
Seed is sown.