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"menoetius" poems
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.
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Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
The Lament of the Son of Menoetius
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.
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It was in a rage that Menoetius cursed his mother, furious that she implicated doom in the naming of her son. It was in a rage again that Menoetius cursed his father, livid that he’d been roughly hewn and to violence he succumbed. It was in a rage against himself that Menoetius coerced the thunder. Even before the bolt had boomed he knew his anger was outdone. Regardless, he had won; only with rage, can rage be numbed.
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Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 10:06 AM UTC
Doomed Might