our faults are
gasoline, allowing
simple spark to
burst into flames.
burn short,
burn bright.
i hitch a ride with the
sun, my restless spirit
soothed in its destruction
as we dip below the horizon
in the west, and he
welcomes us home,
his sons and daughters.
mortals d i e , that’s what
makes us precious
as the poets say.
he mourns
us all, our mistakes
his fault.
his sons and daughters,
related in death.
IAPETUS, titan of the west and mortality. | for @mythologicalnet theme: death deities
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that boy has locked
sunlight in his hair and
a summer breeze surrounding him.
he's gold.
all gold,
more precious than the real thing.
they tell me
boys don’t need saving, that
i can’t protect him, not from this
but, dear god, i would travel
so far to bless his smile
and banish what makes his eyes
dim; to
save him
from whatever makes the soft go
hard and stale.
he doesn't deserve the
bite of reality, to know
people see his kind eyes
as chinks in armor, but
we all must learn.
the world is more red
than rosy.
he tells me he can
save himself.
i hope he does.
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“Then there was Nico di Angelo. Dang, that kid gave Leo the freaky-deakies. He sat back in his leather aviator jacket, his black T-shirt and jeans, that wicked silver skull ring on his finger, and the Stygian sword at his side. His tufts of black hair struck up in curls like baby bat wings. His eyes were sad and kind of empty, as if he’d stared into the depths of Tartarus—which he had.”