The depictions of
the gods are headless.
The pillars have crumbled.
The spirit has atrophied
and the wonder has gone.

No longer for Dionysus,
a temple to Aion.

Profaned by order and rule,
rigidity takes the place of passion.
In the name of culture,
the wealthy get wealthier.

No longer for Dionysus,
a temple to Plutus.

Blind to what is before them,
passerby’s idolize themselves.
The ancient amphitheater;
a backdrop for plastic portraits.

No longer for Dionysus,
a temple to Narcissus.

Power shifts in the modern age.
Worship changes form.

It was in a rage
that Menoetius cursed his mother,
furious that she implicated doom
in the naming of her son.

It was in a rage again
that Menoetius cursed his father,
livid that he’d been roughly hewn
and to violence he succumbed.

It was in a rage against himself
that Menoetius coerced the thunder.
Even before the bolt had boomed
he knew his anger was outdone.

Regardless, he had won;
only with rage, can rage be numbed.

I’ve only just arrived
and we’ve surrendered to time,
forfeiting our lives
to present moment a crime

Distance the traveler’s curse,
separation the test;
the lonesome heart bursts
through the wanderer’s chest

I’ll brave the loveless trips, oh
the future envelops me

You are my Athena, my Calypso,
my sweetest Penelope

I am Odysseus;
the traveler, the seeker,
and with you in mind I braved
two months that felt like twenty years

And here I am now,
on an all too familiar shore,
alone on landfall, yearning for home
but Penelope has lost her patience;

There is no warmth to be found here,
only a strung bow and a deserted bed.
Dashed dreams and the forgotten future
appear in place of my heart’s destination

Yes, I was the one who left
but you never left my thinking mind

Yes, I was the one who left
but you were the one to abandon me

For a reflection to be cast
there must be light
and so Apep was made
inferior in the mirror’s image,
cast below the waters of creation
like an afterthought.

And Ra was cast above,
circling the vast world beneath
but never removing his eye from his other.

What does brotherhood mean to the gods?
Is it only a likeness that threatens to ****?

A series of copies, each one
serving to dilute the last,
until the original is a dull blade
that cannot even **** itself.

I am Hylas
and my voice is the echo,
my desire is the spring
and my mind is the bronze pitcher
that I have desperately filled with you

And how I long to tumble clumsily
in the throes of wine drunk love,
with you, my ever present but distant nymph;
forever in wonder of the parallels of myth