Do Gods Need the Ruin?

I asked myself today—

do gods need the ruin to be gods?

Would they vanish without our wreckage,

fade into silence without our sins?

Do they feast on the hunger of men,

grow fat on prayers wrung from grief?

Would they sit idle in a perfect world,

where no hands reached, no voices begged?

Or do they linger,

not as keepers of fire,

but as watchers of the smoke?

And if the world was at peace—still,

if no blade was drawn,

if no gold, coin, or resources were stolen,

if no heart was shattered beneath careless feet—

would they remain?

Would they walk among us,

not as judges, not as kings,

but as quiet shadows in the sun?

Or would they crumble,

dust without devotion,

myths lost to an age

that no longer needed saving?

Perhaps I wonder if gods do not shape the storm,

but only stand in the wreckage,

waiting—

not to end it,

but to be named.