struggle with a symphony


to say he does Apollo’s
deed, in that he strikes his lyre
resounding hymns and hopes,
indeed, the heavens lend an
ear

is never quite the truth and
yet, the sweetest songs of woe
ebb from his bloodstained
bayonet, into the silent
foe

whom bid his love a last
goodbye, despoiled for lack of trust
as she, the apple of his
eye, bit into serpent
lust;

emblazoned by the devil’s
ire, his verses form a scythe
that gash through bloodless souls 
entire, their memory so
blithe

in light of what a goddess
dreams, when passions ail they fleet
to visions of her beauty
schemes, myths for which men
entreat;

enchanted, thus, obliged
unduly, Sirens cease their hum
while Furies madly gnaw his
newly shorn
delirium

his mercy lie betwixt their
lungs, though pained his words impart
they love him for his spoken
tongue, but ne’er for his broken
heart.




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