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Irial PR Foy May 2016
Part One

Mercury is in retrograde.
And people who do not believe in astrology
Quake in their collective boots.
Mercury enters the living room and kicks the dog,
Flops onto your couch and tells you to get them whatever they need.
You listen, Mercury is, after all, in retrograde.
They will travel across the sky backwards,
Throwing off your life in all of their
Roman god of thieves glory,
Until you give them what they want.
Mercury switches between burning loved ones and freezing them,
With a sunrise and sunset sense of reliability.
With no atmosphere to keep themselves warm.
They don sweaters in July to hide their withering orbit
And even if mercury is in retrograde,
It seems they are not moving.

Part Two

Eris rotates the sun,
Brings an apple to a wedding party
She was never invited to
The apple reads, “To The Prettiest One”
And starts the first war among men.
And Eris claims she meant no harm.
Cries on her mother’s lap,
Aging a year every 88 days.
Her mother covers her in a cloak dark as night.
Her mother is the night.
Eris rotates, stares at Mercury,
Breathes Cigarette smoke deep into her own lungs,
Blows it in Mercury’s face.
Mercury is trying to quit
Eris does not care.
Eris wants to see Chaos.
Wonders why no one asked her who the stupid apple was for.
She thinks humans are stupid.
We are, she’s never wrong.
She dresses herself in her best to come see you at work
Every Sunday like a religion.
Baggy jeans, and a not so clean t-shirt,
Makes Mercury mad that she forgets the wig every time.
Mercury does not want to see the hair Eris has pulled out after every cigarette
Like a body count.

Part Three

Mars was born from pretty.
Yet he seems to be anything but pretty.
He’s going to war with everyone,
He burned a boys shoes once,
A boy who dared to love the solar system,
To accept the sun, and every planet and satellite
Like siblings.
Mars is fighting the stars,
He wants to land among them, and shoot all of them out like light bulbs.
Mars wants to protect his solar system from the stars,
From every boy.
To keep the sun burning for eternity.
Eris reminds him the sun will burn out, eventually,
And Mercury hides behind your couch.
Mars lashes out with the sun,
Breaks the sun’s knuckles off eris’s face,
Sets your carpet on fire.
Mercury starts to cry, notices the bruising on the sun,
Tries to patch it’s sunspots.

Part Four

Venus tries to mediate.
In all of her fifties house wife,
Goddess of beauty perfection.
She tries to keep the meteors from hitting all her sun-mates.
She is tired.
She wants to live in a kitchen in front of her bay windows
With her favorite book,
Watching the sea foam and hoping it with birth her a companion.
She can not handle having Eris burning the sun’s lungs,
Or Mercury wanting to die.
Or Mars being angry,
Much longer.
They set her Sunday best on fire.
A dress with petticoats and flowers.
Her white shoes she keeps perfectly polished for tea with her mother.
Venus dresses the sun in a matching dress made of silk,
And rubs rouge on its cheeks,
Like her own little baby doll
And cries over her own infertility.
Mercury consoles her,
tells her she might not meet her purpose
Of love, and ***, and motherhood,
But that they will love her at least.
Eris tells her “Who needs that crap?”
And flicks a cigarette out on her own arm.
Mars gets angry at her crying.
Slaps her with the sun.
Singes her perfectly smooth cheek.
She cries more.

Part Five

Mars storms out, burns your shoes again.
Eris lights up cigarettes like birthdays and lovers
Off of Mar’s fires,
Venus tries to put them out with her tears,
Her bay-window-kitchen-room-favorite-book-dreams
And her battered, childless body,
And Mercury falls further into retrograde.
Becky Nuttall Mar 2019

The press of
some boy’s
Levi rivets
on my hips
and liking it.
School girl poppets,
******* scraps
thrown in our faces.
A policeman
asking Eris
the colour of the
wanking man’s pants.
Fleshy pink she laughs.
Mysteries at 14.
Eris knows men
with fast cars.
Fast hands.
We fast forward
to forget most bits.
Never question
why we are taken,
we never
speak of it.
Why bother,
my mother’s drunk
with the man
whose daughter
Eris is.
Mysteries at 14.
I’m told
no alcohol.
There’s nothing
than teenage girls
disgracing themselves.
Stay nice.
My father’s charcoal
on our wall
of the woman
with the
pointy *******.
She is Eris’s mother.
Double standard
mysteries at 14.

Eris is taller than me,
blocks my way
with her back
as I try to leave.
Stay she says.
Scent  of lemon
on her blonde hair,
caught up in a ponytail.
I flinch
as she flicks
it to one side,
like a stamping palomino.
Strands caught
by the butterflies
the gold studs
to her ears.
Blonde in my mouth,
lemon on my tongue,
best friend,
girlfriend crush.
She turns,
dissolute and desolate.
Eris says we’re enjoying it,
all the mysteries at 14
Miranda Huff Jun 2017
The lacking is killing,
And it is chilling,
Us to the bone.
Eris is cold.

The Goddess tricks herself into warmth,
Holding an item of memory,
Close to her withering body,
Shaking uncontrollably.

The realization of guilt widens her eyes,
And violently destroys her control.
A promise of eternity,
Becoming a shallow story.

The ties were weak,
But she tugged them as she climbed,
Laughing at every quivering tear,
Of the breaking rope.

Wind blew her out of her body,
And the lacking came.
There was nothing,
In the everything she promised to throw away.

Feeling overcame the Eris of discord,
And she fell to the bottom,
Splattering a story with her blood,
And she swept her conceit into the bloodied earth.

Goodbye, Eris.
Hello, Eris.
Alexander K Opicho

(Eldoret, Kenya;

When I grow up I will seek permission
From my parents, my mother before my father
To travel to Russia the European land of dystopia
that has never known democracy in any tincture
I will beckon the tsar of Russia to open for me
Their classical cipher that Bogy visoky tsa dalyko
I will ask the daughters of Russia to oblivionize my dark skin
***** skin and make love to me the real pre-democratic love
Love that calls for ambers that will claw the fire of revolution,
I will ask my love from the land of Siberia to show me cradle of Rand
The European manger on which Ayn Rand was born during the Leninist census
I will exhume her umbilical cord plus the placenta to link me up
To her dystopian mind that germinated the vice
For shrugging the atlas for we the living ones,
In a full dint of my ***** libido I will ask her
With my African temerarious manner I will bother her
To show me the bronze statues of Alexander Pushkin
I hear it is at ******* of the city of Moscow; Petersburg
I will talk to my brother Pushkin, my fellow African born in Ethiopia
In the family of Godunov only taken to Europe in a slave raid
Ask the Frenchman Henri Troyat who stood with his ***** erected
As he watched an Ethiopian father fertilizing an Ethiopian mother
And child who was born was Dystopian Alexander Pushkin,
I will carry his remains; the bones, the skull and the skeleton in oily
Sisal threads made bag on my broad African shoulders back to Africa
I will re-bury him in the city of Omurate in southern Ethiopia at the buttocks
Of the fish venting beautiful summer waters of Lake Turkana,
I will ask Alexander Pushkin when in a sag on my back to sing for me
His famous poems in praise of thighs of women;

(I loved you: and, it may be, from my soul
The former love has never gone away,
But let it not recall to you my dole;
I wish not sadden you in any way.

I loved you silently, without hope, fully,
In diffidence, in jealousy, in pain;
I loved you so tenderly and truly,
As let you else be loved by any man.
I loved you because of your smooth thighs
They put my heart on fire like amber in gasoline)

I will leave the bronze statue of Alexander Pushkin in Moscow
For Lenin to look at, he will assign Mayakovski to guard it
Day and night as he sings for it the cacotopian
Poems of a slap in the face of public taste;

(I know the power of words, I know words' tocsin.
They're not the kind applauded by the boxes.
From words like these coffins burst from the earth
and on their own four oaken legs stride forth.
It happens they reject you, unpublished, unprinted.
But saddle-girths tightening words gallop ahead.
See how the centuries ring and trains crawl
to lick poetry's calloused hands.
I know the power of words. Seeming trifles that fall
like petals beneath the heel-taps of dance.
But man with his soul, his lips, his bones.)

I will come along to African city of Omurate
With the pedagogue of the thespic poet
The teacher of the poets, the teacher who taught
Alexander Sergeyvich Pushkin; I know his name
The name is Nikolai Vasileyvitch Gogol
I will caution him to carry only two books
From which he will teach the re-Africanized Pushkin
The first book is the Cloak and second book will be
The voluminous dead souls that have two sharp children of Russian dystopia;
The cactopia of Nosdrezv in his sadistic cult of betrayal
And utopia of Chichikov in his paranoid ownership of dead souls
Of the Russian peasants, muzhiks and serfs,
I will caution him not to carry the government inspector incognito
We don’t want the inspector general in the African city of Omurate
He will leave it behind for Lenin to read because he needs to know
What is to be done.
I don’t like the extreme badness of owning the dead souls
Let me run away to the city of Paris, where romance and poetry
Are utopian commanders of the dystopian orchestra
In which Victor Marie Hugo is haunted by
The ghost of Jean Val Jean; Le Miserable,
I will implore Hugo to take me to the Corsican Island
And chant for me one **** song of the French revolution;

       (  take heed of this small child of earth;
He is great; he hath in him God most high.
Children before their fleshly birth
Are lights alive in the blue sky.
In our light bitter world of wrong
They come; God gives us them awhile.
His speech is in their stammering tongue,
And his forgiveness in their smile.
Their sweet light rests upon our eyes.
Alas! their right to joy is plain.
If they are hungry Paradise
Weeps, and, if cold, Heaven thrills with pain.
The want that saps their sinless flower
Speaks judgment on sin's ministers.
Man holds an angel in his power.
Ah! deep in Heaven what thunder stirs,
When God seeks out these tender things
Whom in the shadow where we sleep
He sends us clothed about with wings,
And finds them ragged babes that we)

 From the Corsican I won’t go back to Paris
Because Napoleon Bonaparte and the proletariat
Has already taken over the municipal of Paris
I will dodge this city and maneuver my ways
Through Alsace and Lorraine
The Miginko islands of Europe
And cross the boundaries in to bundeslander
Into Germany, I will go to Berlin and beg the Gestapo
The State police not to shoot me as I climb the Berlin wall
I will balance dramatically on the top of Berlin wall
Like Eshu the Nigerian god of fate
With East Germany on my right; Die ossie
And West Germany on my left; Die wessie
Then like Jesus balancing and walking
On the waters of Lake Galilee
I will balance on Berlin wall
And call one of my faithful followers from Germany
The strong hearted Friedrich von Schiller
To climb the Berlin wall with me
So that we can sing his dystopic Cassandra as a duet
We shall sing and balance on the wall of Berlin
Schiller’s beauteous song of Cassandra;

(Mirth the halls of Troy was filling,
Ere its lofty ramparts fell;
From the golden lute so thrilling
Hymns of joy were heard to swell.
From the sad and tearful slaughter
All had laid their arms aside,
For Pelides Priam's daughter
Claimed then as his own fair bride.

Laurel branches with them bearing,
Troop on troop in bright array
To the temples were repairing,
Owning Thymbrius' sovereign sway.
Through the streets, with frantic measure,
Danced the bacchanal mad round,
And, amid the radiant pleasure,
Only one sad breast was found.

Joyless in the midst of gladness,
None to heed her, none to love,
Roamed Cassandra, plunged in sadness,
To Apollo's laurel grove.
To its dark and deep recesses
Swift the sorrowing priestess hied,
And from off her flowing tresses
Tore the sacred band, and cried:

"All around with joy is beaming,
Ev'ry heart is happy now,
And my sire is fondly dreaming,
Wreathed with flowers my sister's brow
I alone am doomed to wailing,
That sweet vision flies from me;
In my mind, these walls assailing,
Fierce destruction I can see."

"Though a torch I see all-glowing,
Yet 'tis not in *****'s hand;
Smoke across the skies is blowing,
Yet 'tis from no votive brand.
Yonder see I feasts entrancing,
But in my prophetic soul,
Hear I now the God advancing,
Who will steep in tears the bowl!"

"And they blame my lamentation,
And they laugh my grief to scorn;
To the haunts of desolation
I must bear my woes forlorn.
All who happy are, now shun me,
And my tears with laughter see;
Heavy lies thy hand upon me,
Cruel Pythian deity!"

"Thy divine decrees foretelling,
Wherefore hast thou thrown me here,
Where the ever-blind are dwelling,
With a mind, alas, too clear?
Wherefore hast thou power thus given,
What must needs occur to know?
Wrought must be the will of Heaven--
Onward come the hour of woe!"

"When impending fate strikes terror,
Why remove the covering?
Life we have alone in error,
Knowledge with it death must bring.
Take away this prescience tearful,
Take this sight of woe from me;
Of thy truths, alas! how fearful
'Tis the mouthpiece frail to be!"

"Veil my mind once more in slumbers
Let me heedlessly rejoice;
Never have I sung glad numbers
Since I've been thy chosen voice.
Knowledge of the future giving,
Thou hast stolen the present day,
Stolen the moment's joyous living,--
Take thy false gift, then, away!"

"Ne'er with bridal train around me,
Have I wreathed my radiant brow,
Since to serve thy fane I bound me--
Bound me with a solemn vow.
Evermore in grief I languish--
All my youth in tears was spent;
And with thoughts of bitter anguish
My too-feeling heart is rent."

"Joyously my friends are playing,
All around are blest and glad,
In the paths of pleasure straying,--
My poor heart alone is sad.
Spring in vain unfolds each treasure,
Filling all the earth with bliss;
Who in life can e'er take pleasure,
When is seen its dark abyss?"

"With her heart in vision burning,
Truly blest is Polyxene,
As a bride to clasp him yearning.
Him, the noblest, best Hellene!
And her breast with rapture swelling,
All its bliss can scarcely know;
E'en the Gods in heavenly dwelling
Envying not, when dreaming so."

"He to whom my heart is plighted
Stood before my ravished eye,
And his look, by passion lighted,
Toward me turned imploringly.
With the loved one, oh, how gladly
Homeward would I take my flight
But a Stygian shadow sadly
Steps between us every night."

"Cruel Proserpine is sending
All her spectres pale to me;
Ever on my steps attending
Those dread shadowy forms I see.
Though I seek, in mirth and laughter
Refuge from that ghastly train,
Still I see them hastening after,--
Ne'er shall I know joy again."

"And I see the death-steel glancing,
And the eye of ****** glare;
On, with hasty strides advancing,
Terror haunts me everywhere.
Vain I seek alleviation;--
Knowing, seeing, suffering all,
I must wait the consummation,
In a foreign land must fall."

While her solemn words are ringing,
Hark! a dull and wailing tone
From the temple's gate upspringing,--
Dead lies Thetis' mighty son!
Eris shakes her snake-locks hated,
Swiftly flies each deity,
And o'er Ilion's walls ill-fated
Thunder-clouds loom heavily!)

When the Gestapoes get impatient
We shall not climb down to walk on earth
Because by this time  of utopia
Thespis and Muse the gods of poetry
Would have given us the wings to fly
To fly high over England, I and schiller
We shall not land any where in London
Nor perch to any of the English tree
Wales, Scotland, Ireland and Thales
We shall not land there in these lands
The waters of river Thames we shall not drink
We shall fly higher over England
The queen of England we shall not commune
For she is my lender; has lend me the language
English language in which I am chanting
My dystopic songs, poor me! What a cacotopia!
If she takes her language away from
I will remain poetically dead
In the Universe of art and culture
I will form a huge palimpsest of African poetry
Friedrich son of schiller please understand me
Let us not land in England lest I loose
My borrowed tools of worker back to the owner,
But instead let us fly higher in to the azure
The zenith of the sky where the eagles never dare
And call the English bard
through  our high shrilled eagle’s contralto
William Shakespeare to come up
In the English sky; to our treat of poetic blitzkrieg
Please dear schiller we shall tell the bard of London
To come up with his three Luftwaffe
These will be; the deer he stole from the rich farmer
Once when he was a lad in the rural house of john the father,
Second in order is the Hamlet the price of Denmark
Thirdly is  his beautiful song of the **** of lucrece,
We shall ask the bard to return back the deer to the owner
Three of ourselves shall enjoy together dystopia in Hamlet
And ask Shakespeare to sing for us his song
In which he saw a man **** Lucrece; the **** of Lucrece;

( From the besieged Ardea all in post,
Borne by the trustless wings of false desire,
Lust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Roman host,
And to Collatium bears the lightless fire
Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire
  And girdle with embracing flames the waist
  Of Collatine's fair love, Lucrece the chaste.

Haply that name of chaste unhapp'ly set
This bateless edge on his keen appetite;
When Collatine unwisely did not let
To praise the clear unmatched red and white
Which triumph'd in that sky of his delight,
  Where mortal stars, as bright as heaven's beauties,
  With pure aspects did him peculiar duties.

For he the night before, in Tarquin's tent,
Unlock'd the treasure of his happy state;
What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent
In the possession of his beauteous mate;
Reckoning his fortune at such high-proud rate,
  That kings might be espoused to more fame,
  But king nor peer to such a peerless dame.

O happiness enjoy'd but of a few!
And, if possess'd, as soon decay'd and done
As is the morning's silver-melting dew
Against the golden splendour of the sun!
An expir'd date, cancell'd ere well begun:
  Honour and beauty, in the owner's arms,
  Are weakly fortress'd from a world of harms.

Beauty itself doth of itself persuade
The eyes of men without an orator;
What needeth then apologies be made,
To set forth that which is so singular?
Or why is Collatine the publisher
  Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown
  From thievish ears, because it is his own?

Perchance his boast of Lucrece' sovereignty
Suggested this proud issue of a king;
For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be:
Perchance that envy of so rich a thing,
Braving compare, disdainfully did sting
  His high-pitch'd thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt
  That golden hap which their superiors want)

I and Schiller we shall be the audience
When Shakespeare will echo
The enemies of beauty as
It is weakly protected in the arms of Othello.

I and Schiller we don’t know places in Greece
But Shakespeare’s mother comes from Greece
And Shakespeare’s wife comes from Athens
Shakespeare thus knows Greece like Pericles,
We shall not land anywhere on the way
But straight we shall be let
By Shakespeare to Greece
Into the inner chamber of calypso
Lest the Cyclopes eat us whole meal
We want to redeem Homer from the
Love detention camp of calypso
Where he has dallied nine years in the wilderness
Wilderness of love without reaching home
I will ask Homer to introduce me
To Muse, Clio and Thespis
The three spiritualities of poetry
That gave Homer powers to graft the epics
Of Iliad and Odyssey centerpieces of Greece dystopia
I will ask Homer to chant and sing for us the epical
Songs of love, Grecian cradle of utopia
Where Cyclopes thrive on heavyweight cacotopia
Please dear Homer kindly sing for us;
(Thus through the livelong day to the going down of the sun we
feasted our fill on meat and drink, but when the sun went down and
it came on dark, we camped upon the beach. When the child of
morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, I bade my men on board and
loose the hawsers. Then they took their places and smote the grey
sea with their oars; so we sailed on with sorrow in our hearts, but
glad to have escaped death though we had lost our comrades)
From Greece to Africa the short route  is via India
The sub continent of India where humanity
Flocks like the oceans of women and men
The land in which Romesh Tulsi
Grafted Ramayana and Mahabharata
The handbook of slavery and caste prejudice
The land in which Gujarat Indian tongue
In the cheeks of Rabidranathe Tagore
Was awarded a Poetical honour
By Alfred Nobel minus any Nemesis
From the land of Scandinavia,
I will implore Tagore to sing for me
The poem which made Nobel to give him a prize
I will ask Tagore to sing in English
The cacotopia and utopia that made India
An oversized dystopia that man has ever seen,
Tagore sing please Tagore sing for me your beggarly heat;

(When the heart is hard and parched up,
come upon me with a shower of mercy.

When grace is lost from life,
come with a burst of song.

When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from
beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest.

When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner,
break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king.

When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one,
thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder)

The heart of beggar must be
A hard heart for it to glorify in the art of begging,

I don’t like begging
This is knot my heart suffered
From my childhood experience
I saw my mother
vircapio gale Jun 2012
i admit to 'male' --
'female' strikes me low
concupiscent hips (of Venus swaying so)

the one who places,
caught bathing in her morph
to mar
her goddess innocence (Peleus grasps her so)
her evergreen paradise-
apple spraying scruples,
while the sun
dries forgiveness **** (on Eve's fragrant *******)

in other Edens
Lilith simply leaves him blind
to lust
for unknown Didos (craving **** or suicide)

the limping god
nets love and war, olympicly
to smith
a mortal death (from Vulcan jealousy)

foresight's fire-gift
leaps obedience
to lie
far falls the divine (in ******* he defied)

potent swan of sky,
what judgement?
for a girl
you laid in that white rush, (virginity unfurled)

immortal ****
fates sails of progeny,
poet-birthing strife (for temple priestess' cries)

fated nation-death swoons,
shares beauty's scale,
and Aphrodite's foam (caresses history's thighs)

Trojan tensions mix
the modern mind to heights of doubt
of mythopoets' truth ( -yielding blindnesses)

lonely walk the earth
with guiding wisdom lacking
all the pawns of fate (forget love's darknesses)

sphinxine hunger asks
the soul of destiny
of hubris, tragic sight (and orgiastic nights)

of unknown woman
man struck down
sickly city safe
and burning, yearning (nymph and satyr sating Bacchic rites)
~Eris, lit. 'strife', the goddess of discord who crashed the wedding of Thetis and Peleus by presenting a golden apple inscribed 'to the fairest', over which Hera, Athena and Aphrodite disputed until deciding to allow Paris to choose between them. Aphrodite offered Helen of Troy to him, which catalyzed the Trojan War.
~'the one who places' is one literal meaning of 'Thetis', the shape-shifting Nereid or water goddess who was subdued by King Peleus, the two of whom begot Achilles.
~'Lilith': lit, 'Night', is the Jewish version of Eve.
~Dido is the Queen of Carthage who burns herself alive after being abandoned by Aeneas, the Trojan prince and son of Aphrodite, who founds Rome rather than staying with his African lover.
~Vulcan, or Hephaestus, the lame god of smithing and fire, forged a chain-link net to catch his wife, Aphrodite, with his brother Ares in adulterous coitus. He also provided Prometheus (lit., 'forethinker') with fire, who gave it to mortals and in punishment was eternally chained to a cliffside to have his liver eaten by an eagle each day.
~'laid in that white rush' is a line borrowed from Yeats' 'Leda and the Swan', which recounts the forced conception of Helen, Clytemnestra, Castor and Pollux. Zeus had taken the form of a swan to perform the deed.
~Oedipus is the tragic hero that answered the Sphinx's riddle, thereby saving Thebes from her daily diet of citizens. Traditionally he is considered an example of hubris, for attempting to avoid the fate of killing his father and sleeping with his mother. He removed his own eyes when he learned that he'd fulfilled this destiny.
Patricia M Oct 2018
He who walk with my throng.
Must prove that they belong,
cause once you have fallen from my grace.
You will soon know how it feels like to be replaced.

If you don't want me to be your end,
Then don't be stupid and become my friend.
So be careful of who you betray,
cause I can lead your life astray.

Started a war with an apple,
Just because of a forgotten invitation.
that lead to the destruction of people,
A day that is full of sorrow

I am Eris,
Daughter of night,
sister of war.
The goddess of Chaos, strife and discord,
ryan pemberton Nov 2013
All hail Eris.
Sometimes she rolls the dice
and good things happen.
Sometimes she rolls the dice
and bad things happen.

The way I see it
you've got two options:
a) cross your fingers
b) don't cross your fingers

There's no use shouting at dice.
That precious breath would be
better spent
hailing Eris,
or laughing at the whole facade.

Everyone you'll ever meet is just
another roll of the dice.
the sinners, the saints,
the foot fetishists, the celibates
the Muslims and Jainists
are created and destroyed
as they are
by a fickle flick
of Eris' wrist.

The friend who lied
to your face,
the ex who cheated
on you and never
had the guts
to tell it to your face,
the man locked in prison for
child ****:

What separates you from the monsters?

A roll of the dice.
Lucy Tonic Nov 2011
Eccentric inclination
Chaos, my middle name
Gyrating UFOs
Planted in your brain
In your blood
There’s an end
Start planning your last supper
Remember the good sins
Glitch in the system
Worldlets of curls
Ringlets of worlds
Galactic slingshot
Cluster-**** of have-nots
Xylophone snow
Planet xoxo
Scott T Aug 2013
Chaos is my North Star
My god
Because it is only through chaos
That we can burn down the underbrush and weeds
Of old ideas
Old systems
Bureaucracies and impediments
And plant
Hyacinths of truth
But then again
Ask me about all this
When I am 49
Sam Irons Dec 2012
a Titan,
an Oceanid,
--a companion of
who, in turn,
begat human zeal.

the night,
(who many
do fear)
--a companion of
who, in turn,
begat human discord.

Closely related in theory
to the good in
the competitive creator
that drives human development,
are mentors of

I tell you this
to spell out
what message
is missed in
Work from 2008.
Lance Estacio Sep 2018
your beauty put nations into dispute
trying to benefit from the rewards of your youth
for every treasure there's nothing to spare
they used you, abused you, then left you in despair

you've welcomed other nations to experience your land
but your slaughter is what they've plotted that's what they've planned
never have you ever became selfish of your beauty
but you failed to discern the hands of the greedy

your pillars they shattered into pieces
your temples they burned down to ashes
you called for gods but it is the gods who are the roots
one even turned his back after gaining from your loots

you offered so much but they left you nothing but scars
you gave them beauty they gave you famine and farce
should you have invited Eris?
behold, you're the victim of war between these deities

whoever obtains this apple is the fairest
whoever consumes you will be the greatest
war is the immortals' way to argue
they saw your beauty but they never saw you

one bribed you to rule other nations
another bribed you to be the warrior of your fictions
then one bribed you with your weakness, your ambitions
oh my land, you fell. let me ask you my greatest questions.

who are you?

have you forgotten your identity?
why are you allowing yourself be defined by the words of these false deities
why do you still call your oppressor a hero
until when are you going to stay on this limbo

you are Thetis and Peleus not inviting Eris to avoid strife
but you also are the golden apple causing the immortals seek for your life
you are Paris being promised of your dreams
but you also are Helen the most beautiful woman in the history of regimes

you are the war itself, oh my land
your destiny resides on your hand
you are every character of this myth
of your own sword you are the smith
this was a final requirement for my world literature class, reflecting our country's (Philippines) experience in reference to the Trojan War. Literature means a whole lot more when we get to see how fiction shares a common experience of truth with things that happen in reality.
Ashish Gupta Feb 2013
Through the rejections and all the hate,
Just before your faith crosses the Pearly Gates,
Though allegedly claimed impossible by the Fates^,
taps you on your weary shoulder - "Hi,
could you help me, no one else is ...” -
the lonely voice of your soul-mate^^.

^Rumour has it those Greek hags have stock options
in the military-industrial complex, the cosmetics industry,
and favour Eris's 21st century avatar called Consumerism.

^^Your soul is not a super-market produce,
For feckless mass appreciation or consumption.
Your soul is a dauntless beautiful sapling, that
'the one' will rescue from its interminable fire,
and nurture it, till it blossoms and glows.
Copyright (c) 2013 Ashish Gupta
CC BY-NC-ND 3.0,
(Inspired by a lovely young poetess who is sad her
mirror fails to hallucinate beauty in her unlike the mirrors
of her friends, who all share the same distorted dillusions.)
Shaded Lamp Aug 2014

Extreme use of profanities

and Gods engaged in an **** of lust

Apology in advance for any offence caused


At Freyja's Table**

******* Gods everywhere
******* here
And ******* there
They ******* **** and ******* ****
Some ******* clean
Some ******* muck
They **** in heaven
And in **** in hell
Cupids got them
under his ******* spell
With ******* arrows
in their ******* hearts
******* priests
******* tarts
******* freaky super powers
******* torrential golden showers
The ******* sparks
******* fly
******* ****** in their eyes
******* Eris causing troubles
******* Bacchus blowing bubbles
******* Sif is ******* Thor
More and more  
On the ******* floor
******* Gods everywhere
******* with their golden hair
Freyja clears her ******* table
Grabs any God that she's able
And ***** and *****
And licks and *****
******* breathless
Who ******* cares
******* Gods are everywhere
Discarded robes
that lay beneath
******* horns
and clenching teeth
They ******* ***
They ******* squirt
They *** again
Until they hurt
Steaming bodies
Sweaty hair
******* Gods are everywhere
No "modern God" was harmed during the production of this filthy work
Inspired by Cooper Clarke's "Chicken Town"
Abigail Ella Jan 2014
though said to be golden like that of Eris,
the mores which you so savor are hollow with worms.
your stony statutes, finally crumbling, now
remind me of rose-colored saran wrap:
stretched too thin across the epochs
to bind each lawless Julia at present.
able now to be whole—free from your unadulterated peace,
spun, measured, and cut are your class lines at last.
and so with a sigh of relief so great that it could echo across
all of the Caucasus,
your Ovid, cast away, has returned.
Anthony Perry Jul 2014
There is a woman, her name is anonymous, she's strong and has an understanding of the ominous. She lives in a house with an infinite view on top of mount Olympus where she grew up battling Ares and learned that life doesn't have to be so serious. Kissing a poem like her is why I'm wishful, to feel the silk underneath her clothes is what keeps my chest slow and blissful. As a poet I'll call her Athena, the one who's anger can devour the flesh of anyone who enters her arena, a goddess in her own right, she even has three golden apples from Eris, sitting atop a bowl of emeralds in her eye, its quite the sight, when I look into them I feel like I'm going to lose all control and fall to her every whim so I must fight, fight until she stays with me another night.
Athena Feb 2019
I drown
and glimpse Poseidon's kingdom
I fall
and I am lifted by the winds of Anemoi
My heart looks into
medusa eyes
And I run freely about the lair of Eris
I clutch the moon
in the wake of Hecate
as the war is waged against
Selene's solar bounty
Lethe guides my hand into ignorance
Ponos holds my head high
in the face of my deepest fear
Theia bares Eos to me
and I offer the reddest rose
for she is the light
that lets Helios reign
Amitav Radiance Aug 2014
The mind is comfortably numb
Unaware of the repercussions
Holding guard at the gates of Eris
Invoking the discord with intensity
Gazing endlessly at dull perceptions
Anarchy is just a breath away
Holding our breath just to stave away
But the cries of horror are unheard
The mind is comfortably numb
According to Greek Mythology 'Eris' is the Goddess of strife and discord and chaos.
Tiffany Case Apr 2011
Oizys, son
From behind the leaves, I saw you, trembling
In your presence, your power strengthening
In the empty, midnight parking lot
While the street lights hummed
And moths danced around your illuminated frame
You turned slowly, onyx eyes of shame
And dirtied bare feet, male hair long and white
The street lights flickered when you blinked and cried bitterly
And I saw, for my first time, the eyes of Misery

Achyls, daughter
You were in an empty field
No premonitions did you wield
An ancient silo in the distance
Leaning over a chasm black lamb
Dark skinned, dressed in black robes
With tribal painted face
Digging earthen fingers into its black lace
When you looked up, I saw your cloudy eyes
Churning of a storm, cataract yet wise
Your lamb had absent vapored eyeballs
The Mist of Death made my skin crawl

Hypnos, son
Secluded in a cave by the sea
A silent, empty place to be
While gray waves crash into jetties
The clouds gather in the distance
Poppies at the mouth changing time in an instance
I go in your palace and rub my cold skin
For pulsing blue glows from deeper within
You, a lanky youth, with thick brown hair and heavy eyes
Sit there with a paper mask
Illuminated by the penetrating glow
In the center, surrounded by whale bones
Humming a song I remember fondly
You trapped me in your Dreams, singing lullabies softly

Eris, daughter
Violates a bedroom with utmost hate
There are paintings of kings and statues of satyrs
Pillows of silk and animals on the walls
Usurping the gold clawed palace
Silent but kicking and throwing with malice
With black skin covered in a chalky white substance
I peek through the crack in the mansion’s door
Lips formed in a silent shout, you notice my presence
Naked and bruised and plagued with no voice
Suddenly stops and lays against a ****** wall
Through your electric black hair
And fiery red stare
I witness a Child of Spite
Woman of Strife

Nyx, mother
I am a crawling shadow of trees
And wicked heart of night
I am the wax on the cold leaves
And the glow of the moon’s light
Daniel A Russ Jul 2010
Maiden, maiden, maiden, a depilidate mobious minaret –
Holical, Eris begs an atlatl defection, the
Genuis-from-Mars technique – an erathicus lecanopteris.
Suffretex, past-perfection in pastel gloxinia,
Glowingly acidic and shiftingly glossidic, it’s cosmaltry mariala;
Ungual outmoded, holonym singing Aquilar rapax as demiurge.
Demos and Phobos weep, coruscating terrathos, killing riva.

Swell quickly, optic ophidia, lest the ira florena rise –
Rise, maiden, rise optic ophidia, ignore Irredelphine!
Strut the hematacolpa and pace-willow, but fail flow:
Deciduous telechir beckons, demanding autobogotic-hajra.
****-venom and picea hovea, eche verri naught echo –
Beta-decay and COBOL error, fandango with teeth
And sing praise for Eucladanic soignè solaris

Sprint quick, maiden-solidago gesparisè, to Misra pourum!
Majerns and hapax, death-knell aloud and encelia,
Enfloranè, haste! Enatic haste tichodrome, flee, anise!
Apios, harken: tryst-sans-thermobic sweeping of thresher-thrown,
Little-low else yet achroma, de-jubilance:
Fall fairly, ayah! So to be so, blanking systemic,
A thousand steps for one death.
Ayelle Garcia Jul 2014
“The heart dies a slow death, shedding each hope like leaves. Until there are none. No hopes. Nothing remains.” –Sayuri, Memoirs of a Geisha

I bet the Furies are laughing
For such misery Fate has made me.
Anymore and I’ll do more than pitying,
A hopeless case as bad as it’ll be.

Maybe it’s all being orchestrated
And what’s missing is a cut-off thread.
Never a love like this be requited,
Oh,throw me by all means, good and dead.

No wonder, I’m gluttonous of desire,
And here, I’m Cerberus’ best feast.
Even as I struggle away from the fire,
Well,I’m still caught in the least.

Go ahead, feed on my carcass,
Likewise, suffer like Fantine.
Singing in misery till I pass,
Carry me away to a lake with pristine.

I wish then to not hear a lull,
Let that gentle hand rescue my soul.
Now my heart’s safe from hurt or fall,
Ready to be given for a better goal.

Good riddance from the hands of Eris,
But am I really cleared off?
Romance,not even found out of Paris,
Never mine to be with or to scoff.

So until then, I’ll dance alone
With an accompaniment of a shamisen,
Seeking my love to be requited on the zone
Behind a fan and mask smothered by a writer’s pen.

Don’t forget in my sleeves, a swan song
Is waiting to be released so…
Pick what appeases you for long,
Be it I’m Not That Girl, No Good Deed, or Let It Go.
Totally inspired by my muses in literature, especially after watching Memoirs of A Geisha.
Sehar Bajwa Sep 2018
And when you feel I’m slipping lightyears away
i will remind you how my world still
revolves around you.
i will brush out your dark holes with
constellation kisses as we lay counting stars.

And when you feel lonely
i will traverse galaxies to be by your side
as i share the secrets of my universe with yours.
i will hold you closer than my gravity will permit me
and I will crush all the space debris that dare look your way fragment by fragment
as I heal your craters with moondust.

in the darkness of your eclipses,
I will wait in the shadows to watch
You rise again.
We will waltz under meteor showers
and wish upon shooting stars as we dwarf Jupiter
With our amorous infinitudes.

when you feel vacuum within you
I will carve you a supernova heart
giftwrapped in spaceflowers
To fill the void.

I'll love you to Eris and back
As you reinvent a Big Bang for me
Where I started with nothing and suddenly have everything.
a universe too small for my love
Sehar Bajwa Nov 2018
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
hearts of gold, never to rust.

swallowtails aloft, flutterings better dead,
dampened by years of love left unsaid.

box of promises, vials of lies,
waves crashing within ocean eyes.

bloodied wrists, a scarlet letter
sealed envelope, unposted endeavour

eternal fairytale, lover and her muse,
destined to love yet scared to lose.

wilted bouquets, abandoned gardens,
memories burn while resolves harden.

etched in stars, writ in stone,
identity crisis, fate unknown.

Life's canvas, shades of grey,
dreams crumpled, hope led astray

stairways to Eris, rising only to fall
Lone poetess loving her Wonderwall
no idea what inspired this one.
xyloolyx Sep 2014
goodbye poetry
some get none
now to write for a cause and not applause
majoring in alienation
hijack a popular avatar
just for a pyrrhic victory
put everything into the microwave

universal wealth care
***** it all
ensuring that all this isn't for everyone
only the best continue following

gone to get a life
(aka self-inflicted pain experience)
real life just dragged on and on
the same names keep coming back

observing their well-established cliques
like an anthropologist observing chimps
that glorious era
when the streams of consciousness
suffered a drought
maelstrom of ragnarok
took summer off life support


electoral fraud as a way of life
just shredded all the "yes" votes so nobody would know
looking to buy an extremist audience
and wondering if maybe walmart has one
the carnage has just begun

seething rage into the vault
tabs opened to liveleak videos of beheadings
all that freedom and she says "vanilla, please"
ideas with which everyone agrees
ideas embraced by all

everyone loves megalomania
everyone enjoys violent passion
everyone loves paroxysms

90 percent of you don't actually exist
low intelligence levels in all but four followers
make that five

hail eris hail discord hail chaos
mark all as read
mark all as ******
trapped in a vicious cycle
eating white toasted bread and acting all stable

invisible at last
discovered a way to speak
freely without judgment
discovered a way to avoid
positive feedback
sitting down for lunch with two popes
rhymes losing structure and becoming chaotic
Simone Zona Nov 2018
When lilies of pain bloomed from soil saturated in
and lust
Mother Gaea gave birth to her most wretched daughter
A Stifled and stillborn and butchered daughter
A sacrificial lamb, of a daughter
An empty and anguished and defiled daughter

An ache
who was born from the corpses
left clinging together after the dust has settled.

An Ache
who’s cries were the imminent whistle of a descending bomb.

An Ache
who’s very breath was fulled with our most desperate whispers and prayers.

We set Gaea ablaze,
Left her singed and seared and amputated,
nothing but the sharp-edged fragments of what was,
burning away at memories of the battles that lingered still on her tongue.
A forest fire consuming and destroying itself, yet continually growing,
Growing enough to
and burn
and burn
And burn
but not quite ****,
Only to leave her daughter alive.
A daughter left to roam  the blistered cadaver of her mother,
An Ache, still alive,
Alive and sickly and sweet
Full of beating blood and sticky wet breath.
Sara Hila Jun 2020
Snowy skin,
Crimson cheeks,
Raven hair,
Head full of despair.

Soft flesh,
Cold body,
Scarlet eyes,
Like sunset skies.

With her alluring mind,
she eats men alive.
With her deadly seduction,
she embraces her destruction.
This is a poem about Eris, the Greek Goddess of Chaos and Discord.
Lyn-Purcell Jun 2020

Vengence on her brow
On her palm, crisp gold chaos
For the beautiful

Another woman of myth!
This haiku is dedicated to Eris, another favourite Greek goddess of mine.
How one action caused such great war...
I'm really enjoying this series, my list grows by the day!
Be back soon with more!
Here's the link for the growing collection:
A new letter for my new series will drop soon!
Much love,
Lyn 💜
No estés triste, Plutón
Lejos del Sol, cerca del vacío
Pequeño desterrado sin razón de ser.

Piensa en los buenos tiempos
Aquellos lejanos años 30
Cuando te acogimos con entusiasmo.

No pienses en lo del nuevo siglo
En esta última vez que te dijimos
“No eres tú
                      somos nosotros”.

No hubo astrólogo
Que te considerara planeta
Aunque todos respetaran tu tránsito:
Siempre será bueno
Que pases por nuestra carta natal.

Plutón, hermoso plutoide
No nos extrañes
No valemos la pena.

Quédate con Eris y Sedna
Formen bellos conjuntos
Que alguien mejor
Alguien con luz
Sepa contemplar.
(18-febrero-1930, Clyde Tombaugh descubre Plutón. 24-agosto-2006, la Unión Astronómica Internacional acuerda que Plutón no es un planeta sino un plutoide, es decir, un planeta enano situado más allá de la órbita de Neptuno, es decir, va pa fuera de nuestra lista de planetas del sistema solar. En Astrología, Plutón simboliza la transformación y los grandes retos, aunque en general tampoco es considerado planeta. ¿Qué le deparará a Plutón el futuro? (poema del 2012))
vern Jun 2019
discord and strife stood before me
with hollow cheeks, ivory skin, and luminous hair
a knife in her hand
a pen in the other
pick your poison she told me; stir some trouble
from her piercing gaze and wicked smirk I knew
she offered me, a pawn for her games, a decision
however, I had no power to chose at all
so I reached my hand, feeling the weight of my choice
the chaos
and the destruction I would cause.
What would you chose?
The pen refers to emotions, and the knife refers to actions.
Part two will come someday.
robin Jul 2014
i havent washed my hair in a week. ive been wearing these braids for the last four days but today a girl said my hair looked like the sea, thick water green with life, my heels fall too heavily when i walk and i know i seem angry but i promise im just tired, i'm drinking pond **** and pretending it's sweet  im falling off the roof again


this is like a brick to the gut this is like a skipping record screaming the same words with the same intonation but prefaced by a thousand of itself it somehow takes on new meaning a new sort of color, a repetition rash, a spot you cant stop scratching


and you said you could still feel me, you said you could taste me like pennies in your mouth but it meant nothing and we were petty we were hollow we went as far as grazing lips and faking smiles i know you werent what i wanted did you know i wasnt what you wanted?did you know im not what you need?did you wait for me to touch you and wither when i turned away?im sorry im so callous. im sorry im so detached.


im just a ******* storm chaser, running after anything that could be a hurricane and leaving when its just another ******* sigh i stand in the shadows of broken people and get bored when they hold me instead of ripping me apart, what the **** is wrong with me?ive been listening to your voicemail for the past ******* hour, you want to know why i havent called you back, it took five months to realize you were no hurricane, it took five months for my interest to fade and its my fault, i gave you time to get attached then tore you away like a bandage soaked through and useless im sorry, i thought you were stronger than this at least strong enough to bruise but instead you hold my hand and cry.i cant take this.i don't want your love i want you to destroy me i want you at least to try and im sorry i let you think i was whole enough to balance you but im just a different kind of broken


i dreamt of you last week. you cut off my hair while i stared at the floor, wove tapestries to hang on your walls, left me comatose in the kitchen. hasn't it been a while since we spoke? how've you been?


i wanted us to live forever in a whirlwind spinoff universe, falling too fast and laughing too hard to think, your fingernails scratching me enough to bleed, but you called me annabel lee and i wonder why the ******* wanted me to die, but i know i cant blame you because poetry is hard to understand, you can only have one or the other i understand poetry but not people emotion only makes sense in theory, wild chaos and discord, and ive been in love with eris since i was a child, but with your hand in mine i cannot reach  through your ears to pull out your thoughts in verses and try to understand you, and im sorry that i hide my verses from you instead of telling you *i feel trapped
ahh. ... i wrote this hella long ago but i kept forgetting to post it
Aniruddha Basu Jan 2010
dead...that's what you are...
dead...for all, you are...
clumsy hands are all that are
left for you...
mutatis mutandis,
praemunitus eris
sed qui me dixit moritum
est hominibus?
qui me dixit, non est,
sed somnum habere?
and that waking up was a thing that just wasn't there...
but I WAS to believe...
yahweh...blasphemous..."jehovah's" children...
yahoo! yet, the talk of the times...
sitting idyllic on the brick all over...
are you out of your mind?...what's the matter?
...and the hose-pipe is set...the thoughts gush out...smothering you...
it's been the dark night's work...and I am sitting all alone...
thinking 'bout, who's not there...
and never to have known you with days passing by...
I probably will never commit...
there's so much do now and such little time...
that I cannot forget...
what you are...
From always have my story books ever spoke,
urging me to live life with one phrase;
Memento Mori, a simple Latin phrase I had known,
from the beginning of my universe that I posses,
to the society I once slept upon, have I ever known,
that the sky is always sapphire,
the grass is always emerald,
and the blood is ONLY but ruby.

Whereas my storybooks told me, Memento Mori,
I will eventually whither away like the plants I was reluctant to plant,
to watch them die away,
so I could grasp it's corpse, and crush it's ashy substance.
I grin at that notion,
the concept of me having power, to crush,
my homicidal grin, illuminating malicious vibes,
only to feel guilty for I am enjoy their pain.

Although my storybooks, had always said Memento Mori,
they were books of a hero to zero, a man of a demon,
they had always spoken to me, their lustful eyes,
entrancing me from an angel's call, and telling me the phrase;
tu fui ego eris
"As you are, I was; as I am, so you shall also be"
They were right, for I had sinned like the killers in my book,
just like them, and they were just like me,
and we both could not avoid death, just as out gravestones had said.

I had refused to accept Memento Mori,
I refused to acknowledge the emerald that I had stood on, what it was I could never,
the sapphire I had not known, in the heavens only my piping plover knew,
and the ruby, has I always felt, warm, as it was around my feet,
only to be purified, and realize no one else was different.

We all murdered our complexities.
im sosososo sorry if i used tu fui ego eris incorrectly
and that this poem *****
it kind of just flowed out, ya know?
one of those awful poems that flow from your fingertips
Breon Aug 2019
Now I have seen divinity
In clearings wide as all the sky,
All grassy green and riotous:
Long blades a-rattling, aimed at Heaven,
Warring with an unseen wind.

And I have seen futility
As plain as winter's frosty breath,
Where fields of green gave way to death
And skies of blue surrendered, too,
Wrapped up, abandoned in a white tomb.

They'll muster up for war again
When Spring trips in to dance and sin
As if their bellicose endeavors
Ever had a snowball's chance.

And here is Hell, their every movement
Sisyphus against the rock -
Each blade of pristine imperfection
Dances by the wind's design.
I didn't realize I was drawing on Alan Seeger until he was already in the poem. I don't write anything that doesn't end up here. Inspiration is fickle. I need to practice more.
aj heatherly Jan 2014
    with a
seen  a  more
The  bane  of
creation,      a
weapon      of
The  sickle  of
This   broken
world.    The
atomize  and
scorch     and
gnash, machines of flesh, tools for Eris and destruction,
with flues left back from 75 years of decimation and sin.
Amy Grindhouse Feb 2014
Don't read into it
too much

When I put out my stale headache cigarettes
in your ashtray
and I put out in that
way that I do so well

Then lay my head down
next to you
on your
and you feel secure
like everything lasts forever

Keep in mind
that old adage
that's as tired as I am
about keeping friends close
and enemies closer

And hey

This ain't going to end
with one of those awful deus ex machina
dream wake ups

This isn't the dream we're living
so let's make the best of this disposable outcome
get some sleep
and do it all over again tomorrow
in that
kinda of way that we do so well

-From discarded poetry found in the trashcan
of Fiona Eris Strand
Thomas J Palmer Dec 2015
Gods walk among the mortals this day
Ares, our lord, broke his chains
The spirit of war marches against us
But he trained his children well
His sons too walk the fields
My brothers and I hear their whispers
And their promises are true, but alas
We have spoken at length before

Thanos and Hermes are about
I expect to meet their master soon
Nix has taken early claim today
Have we angered the Twins?
Perhaps, and so I pray
The crippled god takes pity and hold us
At least ‘till now his works have held
Their clash sounds Eris’ laughter

Black clouds and savage tides break
Upon walls and stakes of bronze
Sick and stagnant the flesh lies
(The carrion birds do not like the shade)
Watered by barbarian’s red ichor
But we too bleed – I swear it flows gold!
Brother after brother kneels, cloaks re-dyed
And we step forth, walls remade again

Soon my shield will be used to patch
And then – How should Minos judge?
What warrior could take Elysium?
No, I have spilt too much blood
Asphodel? An eternity in the dark…
It could well be the Pit, behind bronze walls
An irony of fate, and perhaps appropriate
In truth, I yearn for the Lethe…

A break in the wall, a brother fallen
I offer forth my spear, then patch it
Around me, iron faces, beyond pain
Beyond fear, our backs to our families
Bearing the scars of our devotion
They did not break us, but forged us
So come, bring Hell’s fires
A good death is its own reward
Ayelle Garcia Jul 2014
If this were to be the last of my odes,
Wait, an ode this isn’t for all of them,
Let me tell of this poet’s misfortunes
That has engulfed her to a requiem.

Everyone who sees her turns to sweetness,
Who wouldn’t turn down her cozy ambiance?
No wonder they turn to her blessedness,
Heart so crystal pure you won’t miss a chance.

She desires to fulfill her own heart song
And change from a sad and perilous past.
Alas, Fate is toying her all along,
Plummeting her to a prison aghast.

Now, she is but drowning in her own blood,
And all she can do is wait for Hades;
I see her soul being caught by the rod,
Gasping for her life, clasped into Eris.

Sadly, she falls to a tragic pure death,
Her carcass as feast for the dogs and worms.
Meanwhile, her soul is given for a breath
A dark ambrosia rejected like germs.

I can’t help but cry of how life fared her,
But no, pity isn’t to be given;
All the pangs of pain, she’s now the bearer,
Anon, the goddess of the forsaken.
Hope this won't be the last poem I post in my life. It's out of my depression, see.

— The End —