3d
. Foam Born .
I. The Embrace That Would Not Let Go
He lay with her each dusk — sky heavy, tight —
a velvet weight upon her fertile chest,
yet every child they bore was locked in night,
stillborn by starlight, banished from her breast.
Her rivers screamed beneath his endless hush,
“These sons, these cyclones, swallowed in the shell —
will you deny the earth her primal crush?
I am not grave! I am a living well!”
II. The Sickle and the Spilling
The youngest, Cronus, sickle in his grip,
waited where the shadows kissed the dew,
and when the vault came down to taste her lip,
he struck — and all of heaven split in two.
The sky was torn, his cry a voiceless bell,
his stars spilled out in blood and brine and foam —
the severed spark cast where the sea gods dwell,
with salt as womb, and ocean as her home.
III. She Who Rises From the Wound
And from that wound — not love, but something stranger:
a woman whole, not born but wrought of flame —
her thighs held thunder, her kiss tasted danger,
her beauty blushed with no desire for shame.
They named her Aphrodite, fair of face —
but deep within, the storm still sang her tune.
What man could bear the child of sky's disgrace?
What god could tame the daughter of a wound?
IV. The Inheritance of Foam
Uranus fell, but in his fall, he gave
the world its mirror made of lust and ache —
a grace not born to serve, nor meant to save,
but one that calls the rigid soul to break.
Where he ruled order, she walks with unrest,
with seas that churn and hearts that crave the flame.
She is the shiver through the armored chest,
the name he never dared to speak by name.
V. Venus, the Unasked Question
So now she stands, a goddess made of fracture —
flesh spun from sky, from vengeance and delight —
a promise that no world can long enrapture,
a blush that haunts the sternest veil of night.
Not love, not peace — she is the sweet undoing,
the artful ruin sung in every kiss,
the wound that keeps the sterile stars from stewing,
and bids us all be broken into bliss.
{fin}
I. The Embrace That Would Not Let Go
He lay with her each dusk — sky heavy, tight —
a velvet weight upon her fertile chest,
yet every child they bore was locked in night,
stillborn by starlight, banished from her breast.
Her rivers screamed beneath his endless hush,
“These sons, these cyclones, swallowed in the shell —
will you deny the earth her primal crush?
I am not grave! I am a living well!”
II. The Sickle and the Spilling
The youngest, Cronus, sickle in his grip,
waited where the shadows kissed the dew,
and when the vault came down to taste her lip,
he struck — and all of heaven split in two.
The sky was torn, his cry a voiceless bell,
his stars spilled out in blood and brine and foam —
the severed spark cast where the sea gods dwell,
with salt as womb, and ocean as her home.
III. She Who Rises From the Wound
And from that wound — not love, but something stranger:
a woman whole, not born but wrought of flame —
her thighs held thunder, her kiss tasted danger,
her beauty blushed with no desire for shame.
They named her Aphrodite, fair of face —
but deep within, the storm still sang her tune.
What man could bear the child of sky's disgrace?
What god could tame the daughter of a wound?
IV. The Inheritance of Foam
Uranus fell, but in his fall, he gave
the world its mirror made of lust and ache —
a grace not born to serve, nor meant to save,
but one that calls the rigid soul to break.
Where he ruled order, she walks with unrest,
with seas that churn and hearts that crave the flame.
She is the shiver through the armored chest,
the name he never dared to speak by name.
V. Venus, the Unasked Question
So now she stands, a goddess made of fracture —
flesh spun from sky, from vengeance and delight —
a promise that no world can long enrapture,
a blush that haunts the sternest veil of night.
Not love, not peace — she is the sweet undoing,
the artful ruin sung in every kiss,
the wound that keeps the sterile stars from stewing,
and bids us all be broken into bliss.
{fin}
