I think that poor Porphyria
Hath had her blame enough elsewhere
And so, my dear Cytherea,
I've taken extra special care
To shift the blame for you to bare.
Now as Hephaestus, that's my role,
I hatched a plan to catch the thief,
And forthwith to my smithy stole
To smelt a brazen net motif
And thereby grant myself relief.
Within that cave of forges wrought,
I called upon the Cyclops aid
And with gold maids whom gods had taught
Began, and other work forbade:
A hero's arms were to be made.
It took sometime to dig the hole.
I dug it by that old pear tree
Among whose leaves you oft would stroll
To set your struggling passion free,
I dug it deep enough for three.
And as the rain set in tonight,
The sullen wind came out to play.
They spattered me with all their spite
As if my plan they would betray
By all the mud in the hallway.
But with this muddy trail's begun
The final stanza I shall write
So let the mud be like the sun,
Old Helios, that kindly light,
To lead all here, for I invite
With bitter pen and bloody hands,
From now into eternity,
The nymphs and satyrs of all lands,
The gods and all the world to see
Me grant you immortality,
The gift for which Achilles died,
Preferring glory over life.
I think it was his selfish pride
That ere the arrow, plunged a knife
Into his heart. But now, dear wife,
Tonight I watched as Somnus crept
Into our room to pay his debt,
Then silently, as you both slept,
Beside the bed myself I set
And wrapped you in my brazen net.
So do not stir, but lie quite still
And feel my knife so gently pressed
And set with long awaited skill
Against your supple skin and breast,
The blade still warm from its last quest -
For Ares' blood still soaks the blade
And drips upon your precious skin,
While lifelessly, his debt now paid,
Beside you, flowing from within,
His blood engulfs the sheets in sin.
I slip the covers from the bed
And run my fingers through your hair.
A tear upon your cheek is shed,
Your clothes lay scattered everywhere
And perfume floats upon the air.
In this last moment, let us stay
Engraven by my poetry.
Since I was naked for a day,
Thus shall it be eternally:
Your naked skin, this knife, and me.
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