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The Odyssey

in a sorry world a version of Odysseus stood upon the surface of an Earth that yearned for just a kiss

for when his feeble fingers caress the soil,

flowers bloom across the land from the underworld.

somewhere along the way it seems I’ve been led astray

from the blossoms and tweeds that arose in his steps

towards the snakes devils quiet nothingness of my mind

where the gods scream that alas, it is fated for him to lead the trail of flowers

and for me to follow crushing each poppy beneath my soles behind

the man, it is my fate to follow behind

him that embodies my mother and father marching towards the gateways of hell

and their words echo wall to wall in my nothing-brain

it resonates with me every time my foot steps forward.

weaving unweaving and weaving anew

the blanket of hope we see engulfed with the flames of vengeance —

the flame we feel envenom our veins that sliver up

inching closer to our silver hearts.

yet, Odysseus, he is encapsulated in glory and love and

he sails upon a wishful breeze amidst the grim, scary storm

that picks the rest of us up from the floors

within the wooden walls we thought were home

but when the waves have smashed my raft into pieces

then I will have no choice, and I will swim

as I watch him soar past me

a generous breath of air fluttering by like a moth.