I am made
In the molten flames
Of Olympus

But even now
I am stricken
With a sense of dread

Unease floods me
I could be standing
At the gates of Tartarus
And fighting Cerberus
With chopsticks

But this strong perturbation
Sticks to me
Like fog on a river meander

My skull is oozing icy crystals
Each thought heightened
And though I have never lost
I concede
To a single thought
No, an instinct:
I am prey
And there's nothing I can do.