(Wait—nay, that metaphor is weak...
Perhaps instead—two doves? An egg?)
No matter! ONWARD! Let me sing,
The triumph love alone may bring!)
"For none may know what power I wield,
My quiver doth quiver with the fates reveal!
A single arrow! Lo, it flies!
(As swift as honey leaves the hives!)
And where it strikes, the soul is turned!
(Much like... a—well-cooked lamb is burned!)
Oh fie! Oh fate! Oh power sweet!
That brings all lovers to their feet!
So let them worship, let them see me!
There is no god as grand as me!
And when Olympus calls me forth,
They’ll kneel and weep and beg and—and know my worth!"
A Poet’s Self-Adoration
Cupid paused, lips pursed in thought,
Then sighed, for surely none had wrought
A verse so fine, so rich, so deep,
That even gods would surely weep!
He cast his quill with flourish wide,
And twirled a golden curl with pride.
With one hand o’er his tender chest,
He gasped, "By Jove! Have I been blessed?"
The Muses? Feeble, weak, and blind!
But he? The poet most divine!
And when he stood before the throne,
Apollo’s lyre would seem a groan!
And Jupiter, in kingly seat,
Would weep—and kiss his perfect feet!
He clutched the scroll, his masterpiece,
And swooned at all its grand motifs.
"For beauty such as mine alone,"
He whispered soft, in honeyed tone,
"Is not of earth, nor sea, nor sky—
But woven where the angels sigh."
The Wrong Audience
A cough. A sniff. A muttered sigh—
A sound that made the great god cry.
Not tears of joy, nor love’s embrace,
But horror flashing on his face.
He turned, he blinked, his shoulders tight,
And in the shadows, bathed in light,
Three figures stood, their laughter hushed,
Yet cheeks were pink, and bellies crushed.
Their breath was strained, their shoulders shook,
Their eyes alight with mocking looks.
For what they’d heard—oh, what delight!
A gift so rare, so pure in plight!
Then Mercury, the fleet and sly,
Wiped at a tear and heaved a sigh.
“Oh, do go on! A finer verse
Hath never graced this universe!”
And Laverna, lithe and keen,
Spoke soft, but with a wicked gleam:
“I swear, my heart, once black and cold,
Now weeps in love! A sight to hold!”
But worst of all, Discordia stood,
And grinned a grin that boded blood.
She traced her nails along her cheek
And crooned, as though she’d grown quite meek:
“Dear Cupid, master, prince of love,
Thy words have struck like stars above!
But tell me this, if thou dost please—
How long have gods enjoyed such ease?”
Cupid paused—his head held high,
Yet flickered doubt was in his eye.
For praise was sweet, yet strangely spun,
Like wine that burned when it was done.
“Why, all eternity and more!
And soon the gods shall kneel before—”
Yet here, a glance, a fleeting smile,
Was passed between the trickster’s guile.
A look that sealed his weaving fate—
A jest begun, a plan ornate.
Then Mercury, with glinting glee,
Did bow and grin most eagerly:
“Oh, master, poet, king of air,
We shall await thee—be aware.”
And Thus, The Game Began.
For Cupid, bright and unaware,
Returned unto his cloud-lit lair,
And there he dreamed of praise and fame,
Of lovers swooning at his name.
And yet, within the halls of gold,
A whisper burned, a scheme was told.
For Mercury, with nimble hand,
Had stolen Cupid’s quiver grand.
And Laverna, quick and keen,
Had swapped his arrows sight unseen.
And Discordia, full of guile,
Had plotted true, and grinned a while.
And so, within the mortal streets,
Where Corinth’s lovers roamed in fleets,
The first grand folly soon would strike,
And love itself would twist alike.
