Poetry, Wordplay


Your silent spell, she slithers over the moon,
Through the crisp cold mist that I breathe,
And she obeys your every command and tune,
So I may drink from the river of Lethe.
May I ask you, son of Nyx and Erebus,
Is your spell in fact, Pasithea, your wife?
From your grotto of no light or sound beneath us,
Is it true that you own half my life?

She finds me to peek through my pane of glass
And with grace like your twin brother himself,
She swiftly slips under the cracks,
And hovers me like an angel of death.
I feel her crawl up my spine and around my neck,
To pierce my skull and mind,
And like your father’s body and soul, unkept,
Gushing liquid darkness and slime.

Hallucinating a world unknown,
With Persephone and poppies underground,
I see you, dignified and majestic in your ebony throne,
Next to the river where your subjects have drowned
Only to rise in a new life, reincarnated,
Oblivious to their unworthy past,
I find myself captivated, liberated, and naked
In your presence, I’m home at last.