I Choose Gold

In the grove at dusk, his voice trembled,  

A monarch’s plea to the god of vines.  

The air hummed with promises, thick and heady,  

"Choose, for I am the giver of gifts."  

Midas, eyes lit with a fevered spark,  

Saw wealth as the sun sees shadows.  

"No grape, no branch, no mortal clay—  

Let gold emerge from all I embrace."  

Bacchus laughed, a distant roaring thunder,  

A sound that knew despair’s slow bloom.  

"Granted," he said, with a shimmer in his gaze,  

And the leaves turned bronze in mourning.  

At first, there was triumph: the banquet gleamed,  

Goblet and apple, bright as holy relics.  

Even the dust at his weary heels  

Glowed like suns on the world’s dim crust.  

But hunger struck like an invisible wolf,  

Teeth heavy with an eternal Nothing.  

A crust of bread, a goblet’s wine—  

Each kissed gold, and kissed him hollow.  

Even love, warm and breathing still,  

Froze solid in his gilded hand.  

"Undo this blessing, this god-like plague,"  

He whispered to skies now filled with pity.  

Through rivers of absolution, he washed his flesh,  

The gold melting like a fever’s sweat.  

Yet forever lived the echo, the gleam,  

Of what he dared to ask and claim.