I was just minding my own business,
But you took an interest,
and in all seriousness,
I am Blessed.
Like ol’ Leander, before Aphrodite’s witching,
I’ll swim to my Hero, but here’s the thing,
Aphrodite’s restless itching,
Can’t change a thing.
On my way to Sestos and I won’t tire,
A river couldn’t quench this fire.
I’m coming for you, up in your spire,
But, Love, expect to go much higher.
We may be the Dancers, but I’m not playing,
Lovers of old heard Olympians braying,
“Our stage, you’re portraying,
the Things we are saying.”
I’ve got news for them, I can’t be stopped,
Ol’ Zeus may try to crash me on the rocks,
I’ll dust it off and slap his face,
for not knowing his place.
On my way to Sestos and I don’t tire,
The river didn’t quench the fire.
I’m coming for you, up in that spire,
But, Love, I’m taking you much higher.
Once I cross the Hellespont, I’m with you,
and we’ll move to Olympus,
evict the Tenants,
and start anew.
Aphrodite should get a loom,
She’s left to a spinster’s gloom,
My eyes never strayed from
Pythia’s vision of you.
Breakfast in Sestos, I made you crepes.
In the background, mixed tapes,
played the things,
only better Poets could say.
© All rights reserved, 2016.
Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.