bruised knees and devotion
drops of dew fall of her hair,
returning to rest. she is cold and yet,
she walks. her bare feet cold on numbing rock.
she is alone today.
the air stinks of unrequited affections-
of blooming hyacinths and victorious laurels.
she kneels; bruised knees on sandpaper, incense in her hair and a blade in her palm. a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter.
what is truth. she wonders.
what is fate. she asks.
what does it mean that she who provides, that she who submits wear the crown of he who wields obsession and petty vengeance.
what does it say that she who lives the curse of unwanted advance kneels for he, who turned rejection into playthings of fate and forever.
a sacrificial lamb for the slaughter. a scapegoat for the masses.
the omens are especially putrid today.
blood spills through her fingers, returning to the earth. the blade cold where it rests across her thighs.
she is trembling. and yet,
she kneels, the taste of sacrifice on her tongue. of smoke and figs. of meat and wine. of devotion and fear.
what does it speak about her that she who is chaste and faithful kneel for one whose affection is fleeting and cursed.
what does it show that she who follows and serves, whose thoughts are not her own; hear the omniscient music of bargained strings and chosen comradery.
she who has breathed the air of kings, of warriors and of demigods. she who breathes smoke and dust and tastes the tears of her sisters, of her brethren.
she who will never taste the fortune of those who kneel before her. she who is a placeholder. she whose tears are sweat in the eyes of her superiors.
she who prays in the warmth of the sun and asks in the light of Phoebe.
she who is cursed and blessed. she who is listened but never heard.
she who sees all and sees none.
she who lingers, kneeling, blood spilling through her fingertips, her entrails an omen only she reads.
her body a prophecy only she can decipher.
she who lingers, fingers brushing the thousand unread fates and destinies, of kings, of gods, of kingdoms falling, and of love dying, of a rage unleashing.
she who lingers, breathing ash and sweat and fear; mouth sewn shut in defense of a kingdom that praised her piety and never her. mouth spilling iron for a kingdom that shall fall.
she lingers and kneels in the ruins of her temple; bleeding prophecies untold. bruised knees kissing rough stone. calloused feet and torn rock.
and smiles. broken body and opened mind.
the veil blurs and she falls, bitter and blind and bleeding as her god graces the ruins of her temple. enlightens she who will roam the edges of the Styx, forever lost and weeping, leaving no person in her wake.
warmth spills onto the broken shell of her human disguise and she whispers to Thanatos, to the birds and the spirits. She screams to her god, the patron of a falling kingdom, of truth and perfection. of poetry and deceit. of amoral whims and brutal fancy.
Oh! Lord Apollo! What shall you speak today.
the blade is warm where it rests. the silence loud.
she falls, ever the faithful priest of a god that will never catch her.
she falls, to protect herself from the brutality of enemies foreseen and unknown.
she falls, still, reverent in her hate and faithful in her love.
she is cold.
