Bathed in Ichor

Bathed in the ichor,

dripping from the Gods.

Poisoned and sicker,

yet grinning, I nod.

Pour me no Nectar,

I have quaffed my fill.

Nor wine mixed with Myrrh.

Neither cures my ill.

Ambrosia? No.

Nor that Mana-meal.

God-vampire, I go,

starved, I drink to feel.


© CGT, 2017.

Blogging Poetry

Obol View All →

Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.

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