Upon a crest of ruby flames,
  Was writ a list of seven names:
Of gods and goddesses untold
  Whose quiet tenets never sold.

Mavis was the nymph of pallor,
  Patron saint of putrid squalor.
Watching, with a tender eye,
  The lives of those resigned to die.

Beatrice, with hair of scarlet,
  Took the throne of seething harlot.
Harbinger of crippling sadness;
  Queen of darkness, death, and madness.

Paul, whose eyes had never wept,
  Ensured that secrets would be kept.
Cursed with blindness, deafness, dumbness,
  A walking vault of tortured numbness.

Talim broke her mother's heart,
  And many others from the start.
She, the deity of glee,
  Knew ignorance and apathy.

Alastair, the golden thief,
  Toed the boundaries of grief,
He sang to people with his flute
  That there was more to life than loot.

Tess won't look you in the eyes;
  Mistress of the compromise;
Smiling, even as she hums,
  That "maybe next time" never comes.

Alex comes to break the silence,
  God of wishes, drugs, and violence.
Crashing through with mighty clamour;
  Hope the nail, and he the hammer.

Of all the deities we cherish,
  Even those whose memories perish,
None are sad as those who don't
  Beget belief. Or can't. Or won't.

And on a crest of ruby flames,
  Another list of seven names,
Whose carvings have been long forgot,
  Will sit amidst our trash and rot.

A whispered call to distant dreams,
  And sheltered baths in quiet streams.
The measure of a person's worth,
  My thoughts the minute after birth.
The bitter irony of a bitter end,
  A parting chuckle for a fallen friend.
Just ninety minutes in the sun,
  The breakfast of a lonely nun.

A symbol for the morning after,
  The memory of my father's laughter.
One season with no trace of water,
  The necklace that I never bought her.
Things I've said to peoples' pets,
  The hope on which I've hedged my bets.
An apology that's not been made,
  A favour I have not repaid.

The reason for a burst of anger,
  That one song I never sang her.
All forgiveness ever asked,
  All the glory in which I've basked.
All the wisdom I have earned,
  All the bridges I have burned.
And the finest of this short selection:
  The attainment of perfection.

For all the trinkets life has brought,
  There are many that I hadn't sought.
But as my tree keeps gaining rings,
  I must keep room for useless things.