Member-only story
The Gods Are Jealous of Her Beauty
Prose Poetry
oh, lovely maid, your smile is a beacon in this dark night of the soul — and I feel as if I could take to the sky, wings sprouting from my ankles, because you are the stuff of clouds I wish to touch
poor Aphrodite would scorn you, I’m sure, for the way you look under Apollo’s spotlight — and Zeus would come to capture you, maybe woo you by way of a swan’s gleaming feathers, and then you would no more be mine to grasp and hold
the gods did not fashion you from clay or grow you from a bone — but still I find their splendor in the way you bow your head, your dark tresses as mysterious as shadows dissipating before the dawn
perhaps I will go to war for you, pitch my sword in the air for your honor and glory, but it seems a tragic thing to show my prowess in a field strewn with blood and carnage when you are as fair and without blight as a newborn lamb
oh, charge me, maid, to take your hand in mine — for I shall not fear the gods their might while I have you by my side evermore
