I pen in glyphs of fire and rain,
each line a hymn, every word a stain—
a whispered rite, semitrue, half-lied,
where mortal poet and Apollo collide.
Conjuring poems from shattered verse,
I blend both blessing with its curse.
Each metaphor, a mask I then wear,
every simile like honeysuckled air.
This parchment trembles truth—
written beyond the bounds of youth.
In every pause, the pantheon sways,
a truth refracts in shadowed phrase.
As muses dwell where echoes sleep,
in sacred wounds I dare to keep.
Their voices burn through fingertip—
a silent flame my pen lets slip.
So let this mythopoem be
a codex born of archaic mystery—
here not to explain, but only to evoke
this sacred ash, this divine smoke.