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.

You and me, sweetheart,
we need to stop thinking of ourselves
as *****-ups,

and I need to stop thinking
that writing poems for a loved one
is for *****-ups.

I need to smell your hair
in the morning,
to press against you

in the cold of the night
and not have that anvil of guilt,
that Herculean weight in the room,

crushing me, crushing you,
cracking the foundations
of what we are, and have become, and will become.

Atlas may have carried
the weight of the world

on his shoulders,
but Atlas wanted no part in it.

Let us set the weight of the world down.
Let us seek folly where we may,
and live.

Let us find
our golden apples.

Let us find them
together.

Let us find them where we may.

The one I love's no Achilles
No massive strength or bravery,
No leader of the cavalry,
yet he leaves me searching, endlessly
for a  single drop of nepenthe
to cure my heart of this disease
called love.

I am no Aphrodite.
But still I hope that he can see
The good I know's inside of me.
And then maybe he and I can be
A flawed Megara and Hercules
And somehow thrive, terminally,
in love.