Ye gods that see the mortals' suffering
Your own delivered to that fate laments.
His deathless blood an offering His cries
He'd make, his golden hair he's rent. Incised.
The cosmic dreaming gods He sleeps now in
Take shape in enervates The Stygian.
In Physics' nightmare; Phoebus casts the rod
Upon the ground and dashes it in hate.
Yet healing arts he holds not culpable,
These too he made as surely as the quoit.
As well the Sun in seasons pulls His hand:
The whipping winds adroit. Dread operand.
He drinks the bitter blame himself,
The petals blue-on-white as delft.
A place for my poems 