The old God and his toy

In ancient realms where silence reigns, an old god sits with weary pains. He gazes down with saddened eyes, upon a world of war and lies.
His hands once shaped the earth with care, now tremble with a deep despair. For men, his children, lost their way, in endless night, they’ve gone astray.
He crafted them with love and light, but now they turn to endless fight. Their hearts, once pure, now filled with hate, their destiny, a twisted fate.
He watches as they build and break, their souls consumed by war’s dark wake. The old god sighs, his spirit torn, for every life, a heart forlorn.
His toy, this world, once bright and new, now stained with blood, a crimson hue. He wonders if they’ll ever see, the path to peace, to harmony.
With heavy heart, He turns away, and hopes for dawn, a brighter day. For even Gods can only pray, that men will find a better way.