no point making this more epic than
it already is,
                 shy eyes of Apollo looking
through as Paris aimed the bow...
                only then Achilles fell,
   and the **** of Helen ended,
             unlike of Éuropa by the bull,
a gaze that pierced a thousand women
and fell into a lake where Achilles was dipped
and Paris spoke transformed into
   Narcissus, speaking of immortal beauty
and youth, with a shadow of the grinning
Graeae as his sole concubines...
     how close came Achilles,
        Helen the next generic beauty.
      who spoke of a truth, or a love as truth
past the flirtations that served Mars' theatre?
you gave me peace, you gave me peace,
     Briseis.
days have come to pass when beauty
is scorned, anorexic heaving,
         girls playing xylophone on the ribcage...
beauty is only beauty when also
deemed athletic...
                    compare that to man
who's contra of athleticism has no potential
for the beauty of bravery,
               fat soldiers, porky police officers,
daredevils on sports bikes,
       quirky mountain climbers,
      no cause no reason to overcome,
            hard to investigate intellect as a beautiful
walk in the park...
              what is beautiful is only that
brings harmony...
                   prior to the study of a.i.
   and robotics, their came the prefix
      of grand automation: self-,
                 as we were all seem to be taught,
in modern urban isolationism,
    the first, the last, and apparently:
  the only thing to overcome,
    rather than to simply: be it, a self,
without any charlatan magic tricks
   of any dogma of self-help mandates.