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Oskar Erikson Jul 2019
i understand the Greeks
When they wrote of boys
turning to men as
“in the flush of their strength”.
as if the tides of youth,
had burst it’s banks
flooding childhood, like the Mycenae
against Troy.
jay Jun 2018
i once was asked to describe him
to explain the aspects that rendered me
feeble, restless
for i was unable to answer
i'll give you

his eyes,
hues pulled straight out of a sunset lulled together
to create his golden honey palette
the ones that have me trapped
in a whirlwind of mania

his structure,
created from stardust
taken from only the brightest of stars
merged together to create his heavenly form
for this sight has left me
lurking through space
yearning for

his voice,
constructed from
the sweet strums
of achilles' lyre
the one he played
for patroclus
that led him
into a frenzy
of love and

as you do with i
yoon jeonghan, you are not simply human
but an act of wonder pulled together from
the most pristine luxuries life has to offer
for you are truly,

or in other words -
"i took a night stroll and remembered a question i was asked days ago and supposed that i should finally give my answer"
sharon Jul 2017
remember me?

i no longer have all the things
i am proud of anymore.

the golds i have are gone
when i refused finishing a war.
the empire i brag about are gone
when i stopped fighting
the trusts people gave me are gone
when i didn't **** a man.
i am no one.
i have nothing left now.

but why all that
doesn't a lot matter to me?
i lost everything,
but i was not lost.

i was lost
when you laid in my arm
for the last time.
i promised i would protect you.
but i didn't.
i let him aimed you.

the stain of your blood
never disappeared.
the last scent of your body
haunted me.
the tone of your voice
became an alarm to my ears. .

i wasn't dead
when an arrow hit my heel.
because maybe,
my real weakness is you.
- why did you have to take 'i will take an arrow for you' way too literally?
Oskar Erikson Apr 2017
mingle our ashes
let us not part in death
let the memory
be all that is left.
Patroclus: You live on.
PJ Apr 2017
who would have thought
that his smile
and soulful eyes
could bring Achilles
the mightiest of heroes
to his knees

certainly not Patroclus himself
for the sun does not know
that it shines so beautifully
it just does
dang.........I just re-read The Song of Achilles. It's safe to say that it's by far, my favorite book. My heart aches and I find myself crying every time.
Oskar Erikson Mar 2017
what was once Ivory
has now returned to granite
yet i.. i am still tortured with breath, with sight.

there is no need of voice.
i will hang on the farewell as it is a rope from Troy around my neck.
lull me down with you please, please, please. i am nothing but that.
there is nothing more to be said.

(sleep in the wheat, i will be there soon.)
you find the quickest way to them instead.
                                 i am not sorry.
My favourite story.
noah w Apr 2016
Achilles does not sleep.

Instead, he seeks the lover’s embrace and curved lips alongside which he went to war;
Those same that he did not find,
Once the dark mist had come swirling down over his eyes
And his soul went winging down to the House of Death,
with a soldier’s sigh of relief.
He had whispered in Charon’s ear, “Take me to him.”
Charon had rowed on, but held his silence.

By way of greeting, a thousand faces turned away,
And no trace of his beloved’s sweet smile as he disembarked, no warm hand to take his own.

“Patroklus,” he cries,
And goes unheard.

Thus; Achilles does not sleep.
He is Achilles; he does not wait.
He is Achilles; instead, he aches.
He is Achilles; instead, he searches.

Over the horizon, he chases Patroklus’ laugh and the turn of his wrist.
He lingers in all the shadowed corners of eternity,
Leafs through the pages of unforgiving, unyielding posterity,
Whispers “Patroklus, best of the Myrmidons” and sends his name through the winds.

The headstrong runner does not drag his feet as he scours the world,
As he chases ghosts across the face of the earth.

Restless, he is never still,
Knows that each step must carry him closer,
Knows that each ragged cry may be the one
That is finally answered,
Each rendition the wound to be finally salved.

He haunts, and is haunted.
‘I did not feel it,’ he thinks. 'It should have been as though Hektor’s pierced my side, in turn. Did they not say we were one?’
As if what he felt, when they told him, had not been enough.
(Scamander would disagree).

One day, smiling among the cypress, he will cease.
One day, the thousand faces turned away will melt to the one alone that within itself holds his heart.
One day, his greeting will be that sweet smile that he found only in the dawn.
One day, a warm hand will take his own, and the word with which his beloved left him will be the same as that which retrieves him:


Until the day when his heart pours out golden,
Achilles will not sleep.
tamia Mar 2016
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.
patroclus to achilles basically ahahhahha my heart
Theodore Bird Feb 2015
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.

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.
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.

— The End —