Mythical Wit, Whimsical Myth

- By Olongapoet Are those dragon scales, your reason’s hides? That I’d need St.George’s lance to pierce thru. Need I look for angry Odin’s lost eye? To see through thy cynicism’s Stygian depths? Why does the sweet ambrosia of my offerings, Seem mediocre for your Asgardian gratitude? I’m not too far away in this Olympian plane, For mine eyes be blind to thy splenetic attitude. There is no Trojan Horse in all that I bring, And thou art no Helen my lovely dear. Thou won’t launch mere thousands of ships, It would be as countless as stars yet unnamed. Why couldn’t my Persian barrage of gaiety, Wither your Spartan recalcitrance away, In this Thermopylean joust of wits, And humourless tragic Greek play? Is this task in all means Sisyphean, The taming of your boulder heart, That I couldn’t bring to a pedestal mount, For oft it runs back to the ground? Would it take a persuasion of Homeric scale, To convince you of my pure intentions? Am I an eternal Pygmalion whose efforts, Means nothing to a Galatea forever a stone? Even Apollo’s chariot is dimmed and tempered, When I squint my eyes in perplexity and sweat, In untying thy senses’ Gordian knot, And slaying thy labyrinthine mind’s Minotaur. I don’t have Midas’ touch to turn golden, That stony and cold disposition. Nor I in a siren’s voice soothe and calm, The deadening intensity of thy inquisition. gods damn it… I only need thee to brace thyself, And wait for all love’s arrow to fly true, To quiver tremulously, finally, Upon thy hard chest. So thou might look up, And see upon mine bloodied hands, a worn bow. While Cupid long after my relief, Of his draining, Herculean task, lies jaded, Wheezing upon the ground…