"The gods envy us because each moment
may be our last," murmured Homer, and pen touched paper and a legend was born in which a man killed a god*

My fingers drip crimson as I unfurl my hands at my sides
My eyes shine silver like lunar spotlights
My skin ripples with the vitality of the young
I grip a pulsing heart in a bloodstained fist and I
crush it, curling my fingers around it, digging into
the arteries and veins

This moment is my last, for a curse darkens my gaze
and the heart of a dead god dies in my sight

Will you rejoice or run in terror?

Perhaps the manic glow of ichor in my eyes intimidates you like the devil once did. Guess which form I will take next.