I. Helen lies, with her back arched, in a meadow of ash. She keeps her painted red lips, pursed. She is as beautiful as she is bitter. As regretful as she is sorrow filled. And it would be her pleasure to let her rage burn the world with nothing but a smile.
II. Patroclus traces fault lines on maps with nicotine stained fingertips. He drinks whiskey from the bottle, trying to drown the smoke settled in his lungs. He's lost, adrift, while knowing exactly where he is.
III. Echo dresses in rags and shivers in the winter. She tries and fails to warm her hands over fires contained in a barrels and garden boxes. Her voice is the silence of a birdsong, the unspoken dream of the stars. She doesn't speak, perhaps she never did.
IV. Hyacinth writes poetry on the bedsheets of dirty motel rooms. He kisses strangers at bus stops and devours sunshine in the rain. They call him spring as he laughs, because he is young, and he is.
V. Arachne weaves a hurricane of truth. Thunder intertwines with the lightning between her ribs. She takes her coffee black, no cream, no sugar. She doesn't beg for forgiveness. She doesn't need it.
--Phi Dean Vulpe
http://lostcap.tumblr.com/