mything the point

feeling a little too dionysus lately, a little too ready to let go with wild abandon, unchained, the rigors of the fiery chariot lend to a disconnect from my pursuit of more apollo governed aspects
erato has my ear, well aware of where you fit into the complex menagerie and whispering a despair into every second you are absent from my gaze taking the words away from fair calliope

my mythology has had plenty of starting points for why the fool is where he is, each one beginning with passion framing him more in the vein of foolish zeus and the fates as angry hera watching

lone hades spending half the year listening to orpheus as cerberus howls at the gates to tartarus, unwilling to do anything but sulk on his obsidian throne, his own torture his own silent penance

chained to the rock of desire for speaking only the truth as the eagle of reality awaits my liver to solemnly grow back, the flesh to knit back together so memory can rend the muscle to tatters again

or just a sad poet with a headache sitting with coffee watching the gray skies above the weekend is over the grind begins anew and that he loves the woman with wildflowers in her hair and smile

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