Apollo and Daphne
You never knew that I was your sunlight guardian on the battlefield
fighting vigintillion silver moon-rapists surging for your chastity
only to crumble to ash before my solar flare blade.
Forever, it seemed, their dust would blanket the naked Earth,
that I would thrive on the heights of Olympus
with my eyes affixed unwavering unpon holy stars
Days of horizons infinite.
But then a coward toga-infant fired a gold razor missile
and this titan toppled from the heavens into the mud.
I blinked away muck
to find myself transported to a hidden crystal lake
where rainbows dive into diamond cascades reflecting shattered starlight.
A silken song lifted by the breeze rippled from the other shore,
where your sparkling milky nakedness plucked fruit from a tree
and turned to me with sadness unspeakable.
When I glimpsed your freckled face of destiny
I became mortal.
means to sprint behind your heels
by the fire of a gilded soul:
to climb over colossus mountains breaking through clouds
your face a moon hanging in the sky.
(I’ll rip the hair off your skull)
to scuttle through valleys under the shadow of Venus
trapped between the heights of your perfection.
(I’ll strip you of your dress)
to wander forests, scouring for your footprints,
haunted by your ghost when the campfire dies.
(I’ll claw your ankles to the bone)
to crawl across sun-pulverized deserts
as your mirage dances away on the dunes.
(yet it does no good, for I am just another moon-man)
to sail upon black cyclopean seas, dodging tridents of lightning, ever-onward!
for a beacon that seeks to snuff itself out.
All of my precious memories are fading—
to fly through light-years of glowing nebulaes, star systems, swirling galaxies,
trapped in the flaming tail of your comet.
—except for the hour
when you became my doom.
I am an ancient one, trembling against a cane,
when I stumble upon you again
all I see
is a tree.
Your skin is bark
Your eyes are hollow
Your heart is wood
In awe I caress my hand through laurel leaves,
the hair I once dreamed
and I weep for a lifetime stolen.
So here I slumber, at last embraced by your cold and mindless roots,
to nourish my dream that never dies
under an obelisk engraved:
You are the lost
I am the dead
Important Note: Because publishers will never accept a poem that has already been posted on the internet, these poems will be taken down if I ever feel the urge submit them to magazines.