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.


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