[ november 8th, 2014 ]
as i look from my post on my
metaphorical cloud, i see
she.
the modern-day atalanta, she is -
always running from
the inevitable.
many have tried to capture the attention of
she
but they fight a losing battle,
and she doesn't mind if they also
lose their heads.
running, running, running.
here is where the plot thickens ;
afrodite's golden apples are in her possession,
therefore,
the running will end
by her hand
someday.
YOU ARE READING
past oblivion.
Poetry"what can i really say?" used to be my words, when i didn't know as much. when i got older, i responded to myself. "everything." now, i realize that i can use my breath to speak on everything in existence, from dust on jupiter to the depths of hell...
