What good would it do,
Son of Peleus,
To pull that arrow from your heel?
As you lie there helpless,
Legs useless and folded beneath you.
Your hand clenched around its fletchings
Searching for the source
Of sensations unfamiliar to you.
Pain. Suffering. Mortality.
How strange…
You are only half god and half man,
And all men must die, even you, Aristos Achaion.
The god's gift to you was not invulnerability, but speed.
And with that tendon we now name after you severed,
You are just as human as the rest of us.
That expression of anguish as you look to the sky.
Helmet still dawned as if you could leap up
And slaughter hundreds more Trojans, but you cannot.
An enraged fall from Godhood
Forever immortalized in white stone.
Centuries later it still stands.
Worn and weathered
By the years and all the heavy eyes that fell upon your misery,
Like pouring rain from dark clouds above.
The paradigm of human fatality and flaws.
But you were a god, somewhat at least.
You thought that you would live forever -
We all think that sometimes.
Remember that you have to die.
Otherwise, how do we know that we spent our life living?
Categories:
aristos, mythology,
Form: Ekphrasis
His fragile frame spills scarlet still warmed by the fervency of his love
Love never to be betrayed further
Stolen from me in his naive pursuit of a modus vivendi
Between my alcove in his heart and his virtuous morality
We spoke so often of immortality
Of eternal legacies of splendor
While your lulling warmth obscured its austere nature
But now my hands are stained with carmine life
And my aureate tresses are dull with guilt
I am Aristos Akhaio, the best of men
yet i pale in the face of your magnificence
Doomed to a fleeting hope for mortal life and glory
When you were all I ever truly longed for
Even in death you watch me
Not in reverence but adoration
Your shrouded figure etched into my recollection
But sadistically lost to me forevermore
Glory befits the strong
Or so i once heard
But I never sought glory of any name but yours
Broken down into 3 syllables sobbed into the air
You were never your fathers' glory but to me you are everything
My only life, my only legacy, my only love
And my strength was stolen by the whisper of your broken breath
Categories:
aristos, 12th grade, bereavement, grief,
Form: Free verse
Methinks, who wanders after pint size toy
To which Aristocrats bow in humbleness?
Afore the little toy went to dance with the rough,
Off the tee in bounces, unto the way unfair,
Wrong way, or off the fair fairway,
Thought hazard but out of bound!
Grudgingly he bowed for a retake,
Now to the little toy the mighty was humbled.
Pint size, mint size, bright white,
Toys in colour bundles.
Fly it goes in kiss with the sky
Little toy, little joy laced in greedy-burden.
Amidst the Aristos stood the landlord, well-trodden,
Yes, the Capo whose toy ran him out of bound,
Silly toy, bad troy, “O, not my day!” He mused.
His baroness hummed, bumped her bum in bummer,
Pitiable they were before the bunker.
“Handicap will tell.” She said in laughter.
But the Aristos were called handicaps too,
Laughed I was at these “Handicaps”
As they missed the little hole in taps.
Hopped the Aristo to win the hole;
Warped the baroness in prayer he missed the hole,
The little hole, pint size toy.
With smiles, his toy, she glanced,
The Aristo did miss the hole.
I laughed at the people of holes.
Hmm! Life with Golfers and little holes.
Categories:
aristos, appreciation, extended metaphor, golf,
Form: Dramatic Verse