You find yourself unable to think of a rhyme
and then not wanting to be alive most of the time.
Priorities shift and your forehead splits
Open like Athena being birthed
coming out of the rift that
threatens to destroy you whenever you turn around
I am not Zeus. I am working on being a god, but first
I need to deem myself worthy of receiving offerings.
Pick up and absorb what you're offering
Love doesn't come from the smoke of a carcass
but it does carry on the wind like the smell of death and rot.
