Do you hear: 

the faint cry of 

an old man's fear?

Cast in the dark,

set sail at dusk,

his return marked with

desperate musque.

 

Do you see: 

he challenged 

devastating detours,

and you, you should lack amour?

Bitter decant burns your throat

where his ambrosia sailed by boat.

Corporal proof fools your eyes, 

the man is not 

a king of thine.

Swine-like now, at Circe's hand, 

paranoid,

and monocularly thou, which Polyphemus

understands.

 

They smell the salt and sea beneath his skin, 

but you smell something sweeter. 

You unraveled threads to ward off a wife's sin

but in that faint juniper on his skin you meet her.

Fires climb your throat and sear your eyes,

but his oceans douse your pain.

Because the tide is high,

your pyres wane,

and with your heart, you unravel to stay sane;

you forget her name.