Her name, I grant, does ring a belle.
A one man leaving party,
Though it is selfish, preconceiving the departee,
and to her now, I offer a hearty farewell
The ache in my chest I struggle to quell.
The thieving knives of Astarte,
render my grieving flesh écarté,
with flowers, winter wind, and a gothic knell.
And I know its unfair, to dwell this way,
like she was some prize to be won,
or a trophy I failed to collect.
But it still stings, when all is said and done.
Nerves, regret, disgust – I hold the insipid bouquet
and it will still hurt every time, I stop to recollect
YOU ARE READING
Odes to the Erotes
PoetryA series of Love poems focusing on understanding and exploring the many different kinds of love. Focusing first on the seven love gods, the Erotes, then on forms of love in the greek language, and finally in famous romances of the greek gods. This...
