K A L O P S I A

ELEVEN

She knew he was too good for her
she was after all
just a little drab nightingale

He was more than a person
he was more than a man

When he smiled
shadows danced
when he moved
all paused to gaze upon his grace and beauty

If he bled
he would have bled golden ichor
and gods would have drank it
paid and bartered to drink the liquid at events created in his name

He was a god
who had humbly gazed upon a little bird
lost and without cause

He had chosen her
only her

He smelt like winter snow
splattered with crimson blood
Sharp and metallic

He needn't a weapon for his victims

He was the weapon