the squelch of the Maenads' feet

danced grass into mud.

their murderous waters breaking--

carrying Orpheus' head in their bellies.

their glazed masks of perspiration became

stuck to weedy tresses of hair--loose as the

plucked strings of Orpheus' lyre.

their droplets of sweat premixed with blood.

Dionysus obliterating memories of irreversible

inebriation between his teeth--grape clusters

downing his chin like a handfed babe.

Orpheus' harmonic Sparagmos--where the

eidolon of every G*d reverberates an uppermost

image.

as Orpheus' head meandered, crashed & tumbled

thru the River Hebros--his lyre stayed by this throat.

playing dismemberment.

the goat song of tragedy.

undercurrents of Hades saturating Hebros with the

narrowest name of water--leading out to...

Time,
such an unforgiving venture that grasp the focus of all wandering humans.
Making us quiver with fear and desperately longing for a glimpse of the vision behind the timely creatures’ eyes.
Taking everything we give out as relying sustenance.
Feasting on every action we execute on our day to day to give birth to freshly constructed seedlings.
Soon will they sprout to become awaiting experiences to mortal souls, and of course not all are roses.

Karma some might call it,
God’s wrath even.
But in all truth, it’s our own handling.
We nurtured the creature and handfed it our deeds that have led to our own naturally calculated fates.
So yes, be careful of how your hand swings.
Think twice of which way you sway, where you lay and think to say.
For your present actions are the source from which the creature nourishes itself
to give life to tomorrows unwritten day.