Aphrodite Terra's Castle 1/6/26

I.                

It’s his magic that keeps me here, sure

but it’s the way that I serve myself

on tables that I cultivated- without anyone’s help,

that sanctified his adoration for me. Assembled with divine instructions

intended to be understood by only the truly devout.

My dedication to the doctrine is matched only

by his- loyalty, to me.

When I speak to him now, my words cut my tongue

like spit full of fire, I’m now a volcano.

He’s just an infatuated monk, drunk

out of his mind in a prison of misery, [and religion],

he willingly locks himself back up inside of,

each time I try to show him mercy, by releasing him.

The flowers he hangs on the walls can’t disguise my disgust

for the nectar of his fate, which follows us everywhere.

II.               

She just wants him to shut up and worship her

while he at least tries to pretend to not be in hell.

His brain is celibate of an emotion or idea of his own.

He’s been rendered a bland cup of tea.

Spending his days accidentally soaking his herbs

in the holy water she has reserved for

her favorite deity; the one

he pretends he doesn’t know about.

His petitions go unanswered until she has acknowledged them.

Forgiven him for his offenses against aesthetics.

For having the audacity to want to be so close

to the universe’s image of reverence and exquisiteness.

III.             

During the moments that I am not in her wrath,

her anger will fade

into a warm bath.  

She’ll lose her garments

along with the arguments

she left in the oubliette.

She will let go of all of it,

so that I can sink back in.

As soon as her fire

has finished burning for the night.

Once even the embers have given her their light.