Rip my soul out.
Remodel it.
Light white in your boiling fist.
Oh, Prometheus, shape me from cloying earth,
Let winged whispers of dancing heat fill my rough-formed ears,
Eyes as bright as that red beast,
Only to be drowned in black thunder and rain,
Only to be plucked by harsh beaks.
Oh lord Ra,
Your liquid joy shapes me.
Later they will call my birth uncouth
But who are they to decide the parameters of my divine creation?
Hands and lips dragged up to scorching heavens,
Oh rebirthed king, sustain,
Hold sun-swallowing fangs at bay.
Smouldering spices made sacred for you,
My lord,
Only to be mauled by a vengeful daughter
Drunk on mortal blood.
Make me like these first men,
These first aeons,
When heaven could be scraped by dedicated fingertips
And the celestial found in every burning eye.
YOU ARE READING
Waking Up Old Gods
PoetrySome poetry inspired by Classical writing, myths and heroes, because I can't make my own narratives to write about.
