Terra Firma

After the rain, they came

before the fold:

chariot-drawn stags

diving deep beneath her

elden rings,

forged in flames

greater than gilded gods, and

hot as Helios

Icarus wept through pointed fingers,

joven, in truth, by Jove, as if the

killing of a sacred deer weren't

likelier to

matricide.

Nubile springs,

offered too soon.

Persephone again evades starvation.

Quake, for you're just like your mother.

Rejoice, for "the Queen, my lord, is dead".

Sate yourselves in knowing

that you have known Nothing

under pretense of

veritas, a self-made

web of golden fleece

xenophobically woven by forked tongues.

Year after year, he endears to the

zealous, endured by the honest and blind.