youth is strewn across the room,
pieces and parts haphazardly thrown around,
and when she looks for them, it seems she gets older,
with every passing moment of longing and venturing.
how was she not to treasure the thing she had beheld?
and when she's crying over the lost of something dear,
she calls to God, who turns blind eyes to sinners,
and she is a sinner now. and now she calls for love
from the demons below, calling and calling towards
the fallen angel, and that is her God now.
he flies upon the wings of Icarus, feathers and wax
melting into his skin as he glides above the clouds,
tasting frothy forgiveness against his cold cheeks.
but that is until his wings give out, because materialistic
things fall apart, and deep down he knows his wings
aren't the only things made from materialistic fantasies.
spiraling down he plummets, the earth swallowing him whole,
and even the wings of Icarus cannot save him from his fate,
as the wax and feathers bleed in vain; of dusty truths and
hidden beginnings. and he falls, swallowed into nonexistence.
clinging to the fragmented truth, they withheld the realities,
calling to Dionysus for that last taste of ecstasy. because who
would want to die by the hands of Titans, and they know they
will not survive, and their efforts are in vain, but the taste of
dripping wine from eternal yearning springs to mind, and
Dionysus appears. torn apart are they, heart of jaded longings
buried into the depths of forever ago, and was that taste
of ecstasy worth it? was it worth dying in nevermore?
the river Styx covers it, blessing it with the shield of
eternal suffering, and it is drowned in the Underworld,
swallowing the griefs of the dead and the lives of the dying,
it feels the way it burns their esophagus, the way it feels like
screaming and clawing at the thin layer of being in its throat,
it tastes the fiery bile of grief and the willingness to throw everything
away for another day to live, and it sheds tears in solace,
droplets of grievances dipped into pools of grasping hands,
and it is eroded away in the depths of the Styx, its being forsaken
in the hands of eternal suffering and longing for another day.
and decorate your hands upon the grace of Olympus, dipping
your fingertips in the dying facade of bliss and dreams come true,
oh Achilles, it is no wonder you have bestowed upon us the only
part of you that had not been protected and guarded, for if we
were to become Gods, we would fall into the depths of madness,
and forsake ourselves against the mirage of vanity.