Consumed in his wrath, he
sits on the kerbside.
Vanished from the land of
the gods, cursed to earth
in dismay.
A cigarette sits nestled in his
fingers, he drags a short breath.
Then blows smoke from his lungs
they erupt - a fiery explosion.
He looks on, eyes restless but
still unperturbed. He despises his
human form - useless.
He could kill with a flick of his hand,
but yet - now human - diminished
to nothing. The most he could do
was strike his fists.
Son of Ares is no more.
Reduced to ashes he stands,
looks, then consumes his violent
rage on the town.
His anger won't subside, angry
at his father for keeping him
here of all places. While the gods
lay on their pristine thrones
in olympus, residing over the land
in dominant reign.
Curse the gods, he mutters, finishing
his eighth cigarette in a mere matter
of minutes. He unwraps another, puts
the killing, cancerous agent to his lips,
and consumes it.
He kisses the killer with lips forged from
the heart of dying embers - and that, is
what he will become.
Son of Ares - reduced to embers.
YOU ARE READING
Blackberry Thistles ✓
Poetrypoems as delicate as the fruit itself, and as thought-provoking as the sour aftertaste. All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2019 Kate H. > third place winner of the gem-mers awards poetry section 2020
