The Calumny of Apollo

Can you hit me if you shoot? Press an arrow to my centre and
Outrank me, undispute and torsexposed, a saxon short of sacrifice
Ill-used to feel inviolate. That all is games and all the same we fail
The preparation – that sun it rises and we hide from what it means
To stand upright, serene and ceremonial, the image of a truth we
Keep afraid of as the Omen. Ordinal, patriarchal order of a vicious
Choral sting, sulphurous and found therein in tune with the prediction.
I have wished it. I have reached beyond my rank, far beyond the
Mortal privilege. This is me bending the minds, the wills of generations
– this is nothing when compared to what you’ve taken from me,
Why I stand in accusation. Clothed justice must appear as a figure we
Take pride in, we see subtle shame through, shy from really seeing.
Suspicion whispering; ignorance suggesting I should not stretch out
This hand, cede an innate touch to. I’ll show you. I’ll look up to,
Celebrate you. I will worship from devotion you’ve destroyed.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s