These hands that wrought the lyre, that serpents fear,
What twisted work have you now wrought today?
They made that discus, now must make the bier;
My prince of flowers on the clearing lay.
My victories dissolved on horror's floor,
Is this defeat beneath the master, Fate?
In contrapposto for a second more,
His temple shattered by a searing plate.
Watch this, he said, but then it ricocheted.
The blood ejaculated from the wound.
Gore painting flowers, he could not be saved.
I felt a desperate death-lust in the swoon.
My being obsoleted by a toss,
Why ever live if live to feel this loss?
A place for my poems 