Ἀχιλλεύς

youth is strewn across the room,

pieces and parts haphazardly thrown around, 

and when she looks for them, it seems she gets older, 

with every passing moment of longing and venturing. 

how was she not to treasure the thing she had beheld? 

and when she's crying over the lost of something dear, 

she calls to God, who turns blind eyes to sinners, 

and she is a sinner now. and now she calls for love 

from the demons below, calling and calling towards 

the fallen angel, and that is her God now. 

he flies upon the wings of Icarus, feathers and wax 

melting into his skin as he glides above the clouds, 

tasting frothy forgiveness against his cold cheeks. 

but that is until his wings give out, because materialistic 

things fall apart, and deep down he knows his wings 

aren't the only things made from materialistic fantasies.

spiraling down he plummets, the earth swallowing him whole,

and even the wings of Icarus cannot save him from his fate, 

as the wax and feathers bleed in vain; of dusty truths and 

hidden beginnings. and he falls, swallowed into nonexistence. 

clinging to the fragmented truth, they withheld the realities, 

calling to Dionysus for that last taste of ecstasy. because who 

would want to die by the hands of Titans, and they know they 

will not survive, and their efforts are in vain, but the taste of 

dripping wine from eternal yearning springs to mind, and 

Dionysus appears. torn apart are they, heart of jaded longings 

buried into the depths of forever ago, and was that taste 

of ecstasy worth it? was it worth dying in nevermore? 

the river Styx covers it, blessing it with the shield of 

eternal suffering, and it is drowned in the Underworld, 

swallowing the griefs of the dead and the lives of the dying, 

it feels the way it burns their esophagus, the way it feels like 

screaming and clawing at the thin layer of being in its throat, 

it tastes the fiery bile of grief and the willingness to throw everything 

away for another day to live, and it sheds tears in solace, 

droplets of grievances dipped into pools of grasping hands, 

and it is eroded away in the depths of the Styx, its being forsaken 

in the hands of eternal suffering and longing for another day. 

and decorate your hands upon the grace of Olympus, dipping 

your fingertips in the dying facade of bliss and dreams come true, 

oh Achilles, it is no wonder you have bestowed upon us the only 

part of you that had not been protected and guarded, for if we 

were to become Gods, we would fall into the depths of madness, 

and forsake ourselves against the mirage of vanity.