my Promethean matchbox of sins
should now lay extinguished on the
carpets of Hades, excepting nothing
more from hopes receding virtue

menace mean, leading to falseness
where all industries of old fall
no more stokers are there
to feed the last vestiges of embers slain

the essence of Aphrodite, an opposite
cannot be gleaned, and no whisper
of an invitation to Elysian fields,
where the true historians dwell

only the promise of more patience’s
to endure twofold, thrice cruel
to the form of the cutters children
drawn down to torture evermore my ilk

slip streaming the knowledge that
neither cause or effect are even known
and Hermes has never brought any
message worth this longest wait



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