Wish my words could show
how hellfire
has replaced butterflies
in my stomach,
how brazenly like Trojans
my muses were massacred,
plucked like putrid flowers
with empty promises,
and plebeian actions,
how my poetic heart is
too much for Achilles,
for he needed war
to achieve glory.

I should not have come to Phthia,
stayed exile among Achaeans or in Aiaa,
perhaps then,
Achilles can fullfill his destiny
and I in my ninth circle of hell
could have home to my loneliness.

But I was naive -
like young Circe -
who succumbed to
Glaucus's vain humanity,
and made him an ungrateful God,
But now,
I must cut this thread
and bring my July's self-back,
perhaps then this
monstrous wound
wouldn't have manifest
into gangrene,
and I can love Autumn
like I used to do,
before my soul reeks of trojan's deaths.

I must stop myself halfway,
and re-paint my walls
in an another colour,
perhaps taupe this time
instead of a rainbow,
for I am more
than a forced love
in my poems,
or misery in my
mosaic heart.

So here is my goodbye,
To our what-ifs,
and your mahogany heart,
to the deafening silence in full moon,
and your bunch of oxymoron.
©lackintalent_16