Blood, rage, love. She was no more beautiful than war. In passion she roars, Her lungs storming with zeal. She screaming, she’s screaming, “Blood, rage, love.” On what grounds do you love her? You love her not for her beauty (Though what beauty she has); No, you love her For she is an extension of your own self; She lays atop the mountains moved by your hands, She is the battlefield on which you win the war, She is the wine in your chalice, The gold of your rings. The land ruptures When you set foot hand-in-hand. Fissures erupt and swallow every mortal, And at the gates of the Hell The question is asked, “On what grounds have you met your demise?” The Earth shakes As they scream with such conviction, They raise their shaking hands And their voices can be heard: “On what grounds have we been torn apart at the seams? On what grounds have we faced our unbecoming? We were damned in our primes by the crimes of the immortals—” Speak, phantoms, speak! They’re screaming, they’re screaming, Their bones falling apart, Their broken hearts like knives in their hands, And the air is filled With their merciless cries, “Blood, rage, love!”
Ares and Aphrodite (via olxmpian)
