did you know your hair was golden in the sun?
you were the boy king, gentle as the summer air
you found me frail and useless, when i was nothing
yet you, in all your glory, made me something.

your name echoed through all the kingdoms of Greece,
you threatened yet were admired by the greatest of warriors
you roused lustful dreams in the most tender and innocent of nymphs
you were the mighty sentinel of the common stranger
yet you were mine to hold in the dark of night.

i still think about the way your leg dangled as your lyre lulled on,
your languid trails of kisses and starlit whispers
still haunt me the same way your unavoidable fate
crept upon you through your noble triumphs.

i have listened to your speeches like homilies of the faithful
i have memorized the creases on your face of fierceness
i have kissed your war wounds and cried for your pain
and i have read the greatest of legends in the lines of your body.

i could have sworn your battle cries
were as melodious as your lyre songs
and so beautiful they were
that i still hear you sing in the tides of the Aegean seas

you were destined for fame and wondrous glory
to be a story to be told for all time
to have people cheer your name and fall on their knees for you
loss was a feeling foreign to you,
yet the only thing you lost yourself to, in your pride, was love

who knew love could be such a terror?

golden haired triumphant prince
running swift and beautiful with the ocean breeze
nobody could ever catch up:
i had always thought you and i would live forever.

No Titans left to slay,
Constellations left to claim.

The temples of gods,
swallowed under eons.

In an age without wonder,
to be born with the heart of a hero,
is to be cursed in a time without villains,

Destined for barbaric purpose,
in a world without adventure.
Armor swapped for silk,
Surrendered swords to philosophy,


Still I believe that somewhere,
between closed eyes and open spirits...
The ancient battles still rage on,
flashes of wars without names.

Where blood shed for valor,
Paves paths for all nations,
to the hall of heroes,
and an eternal feast of celebration.

Oh, but you suffer
my golden one
You suffer for the scars of the future
and of the past
Oh, my fragile golden one
who fell for the silence
and the silence made you deaf
to the yells of your own
For the silence, which was dark,
the darkness within it
Oh my golden boy
you could make the pain voiceless
yet you wanted it to scratch your marble skin
and hollowed cheeks
and oh, those mournful eyes of yours
tearless after these years
of the world collapsing
right in front of them, right to your feet
Oh, my golden lover, you could had it all
and yet you’ll always itch for me
in this life or another
disastrous déjà vu, my dear
because I want the best for you
and you always choose to love me.

Cradling snowy doves in your soft palms;
     fluttering wings and fluttering smiles.
Tip-toeing shorelines, wet grass on riverbanks;
     sun-kissed shoulders and Apollo's eyes.
Flushed skin in the shade of Pelion,
     fig juice in your cold gold hair.

The clang of armour rings through the clamour
      of our men screaming thy name.
Thy name that I bear, blazing bright
      as these brazen greaves.
A-CHIL-LES.

It is not I that they know.
It is not my feet that are thus as swift as thine;
    though they would believe it.
It is not my rough hands that are never wrong;
    but that have rather slain Sarpedon, now.

It is not thy knees that quake at Hector's call; 'tis mine own.
    A-CHIL-LES.
It is not thy eyes that water in fear,
    it is not thy hands that grasp thy spear, 'tis mine own.
Never wrong. Never wrong. Never wrong.

It is not thy gold-spun curls that spill forth,
    as thy helmet falls.
It is not thy blood that stains Hector's spear;
    it is not thy chest that splinters, 'tis mine own.

The clang of spear piercing armour rings through the clamour
      of our men screaming my name.
My name that I bear, blazing bright
      as thy brazen greaves.
PA-TRO-CLUS.

evil is a little boy in a black
hood trying to be
good. do you ever think about how many
tears the mother of the
devil has cried? not all the planets in our known solar
system could fathom that kind of
treason.

being home alone at night is my achilles
heel. perhaps we were meant to splinter like
this, he thought when he took his last
breath. perhaps
we were made for
this, and nothing
else.

when he says he
loves me, i want to dip him in
chocolate. when he says he's leaving
anyway, my eyes burn like they've been soaked in
bleach. come, baby, let me straighten your
spine, let me read to you the novels of your
fingertips.

some things, i guess, are doomed from the
start. some countries don't have words for
'all right.' some people never stop
bleeding.