• lackintalent_16 5w

    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.