Today, I have a friend guesting. Please, enjoy Nero’s poem…
Long, shapely legs so smooth
Stumbling blindly through a dim, scowling maze
The gentle curves of her bejewelled hips
See how they sway to every man’s rhythm
Parched, joyless soul, ever wandering
An angel seeking solace in Lucifer’s crimson arms
Mesmerized by his wicked ways, for reasons the gods delay to reveal
She is alive, yet too afraid to truly live, a mere phantom
Four drunken warrior-kings emerge from their own ashes:
Desperately, she attempts to appease them with more liquor and a glowing melody
Now night rests, bringing with it the all too familiar scent of sorrow
So she strums a sobbing tune on an old, worn guitar
Because sad songs offer her self-pity, that bitter-sweet nectar.
Your journey is but a day old
Yet, relentlessly, you fight an elder’s battle
Weep, fair maiden, for your fear is like untamed winds
Propelling you to wage war with the veryhearts that love you
Tightly, your fingers bloodied, grasp your blunted sword
While you drift wearily across lonely seas
Fearing that perhaps loneliness will accompany you to death’s silent shore
Pray, tell me fair lady, are you Hephaestus incarnate?
That son of Olympus, who was a powerful god and yet a cripple?
Crippling fear and great courage- strange bedfellows residing in your heavy heart
Making you so fragile and so strong all at once
Who did this to you, golden girl?
Your insecurity so greatly taints your beautiful, shimmering soul
Now you’re trapped in a struggle to compensate for what you lack in beauty
As if the small breasts God gave you are a mistake that must be corrected.
Again, I ask, who did this to you?
Tonight, the phantom wanders yet again, in the dungeon that is its mind
Forlorn, it seeks a hidden path that stretches far into the open road
Searching for a light bright enough to lead her to the land of the wild and free
A land where her whispers will become happy screams
A land where her words will not be few
But all she finds is stinging darkness
So, with trembling resolve, she sets knife to wrist,
But her burning calls for help are quenched by Death’s ice-cold fingers.