Superior. Us a miniscule thought passed around in a tempestuous sea of arrogance. Your opulence radiating, your head held higher than the sun. The sun which was only made to graze your skin, to paint you in honor with a light of serendipity. To gaze at you is audacious.
What is a mob to a king? A king to a god? A god to a none believer?
You deem yourself worthy of my hymns, my hands to clasp in awe of your grandeur and palatial ego. You deem yourself absolute when all you will be is an hypothesis.
Your glory forever spoken of yet never proven.
A myth you are desperate to claim truth to your non-believer. A god only in name and not right. A mortal at flesh and heart and soul. Your blood not of ichor but of the crimson you despise yet you speak with confidence of your false title.
And that itself, proves the mortality you deny.
To earn my praise is to confirm your divinity and yet here you are.
To earn your right from your non-believer. The one who diminishes your right and laughs at your greedy face.
You want the only person- who does not want you.
-Eros
YOU ARE READING
The Hymns of Anteros
PoetryPoetry muddled and marred by worldly reveries. A kalopia the fingers of your soul couldn't reach.
