Apollo and Dionysus are exhausted

and my bones are weary of their war

When the grape-glutted god itches

at my fingertips, blinking green lights

make my heartbeats pulse pound to

the tune of his battle march his archers

slay with mono-syllabic responses and


He laced the drinking water with white powder

until the thirst became unquenchable

still Apollo tries to remind me of the

sweetness of blue against my tongue

when water was a calm sea He steps

lightly amongst the dismembered limbs

calmly he presses my heart to temper

the fix of those affections to dispel the

midnight rites under the orchards that

only ever end in blood

because there is love

and there is all the broken god shrouds

in imposter robes

leaving us as empty
and ravished
as his body scattered
beneath the branches
and if I am ever to survive the immensity
of this love I have for you
then I better choose a side
and clear my body of this battleground.