they were victims of indigestion,
the gods i respected,
were not the gods i knew
the greeks weaved strife from my cimmerian crown,
kindly less spoken of by night:
the daughter of the ardent asphodel groves,
murderous in grace and vice.
i am the first-person lies
in the ears of the sorrowful,
the chaos in the divine,
and the wrath in the whimsical.
in my springtime height,
i can still touch my head to heaven’s gate,
initiate wars and spark flames that burn empires-
i have always been wild and silent.
my hands can turn your bones into timbers;
your soul into botany, your tongue into beehives,
and cast your mind into knots,
your eyes into the vitriolics of psychosis.
i am the child of nothing,
the sister of bloodshed,
and the onyx niece of fire,
and i remain the champion of discord,
the queen of self-demise,
and the goddess of error and pain.
i am christened the witch,
and i inspire faults.
the greek men i respect,
are not the greek men i know.
it is an art to die, a.m.
(Eris, goddess of discord.)