When the Bow Breaks

To quicken but never birth

Leaving us like a pregnant pause.

Hera waits, whispering an ever ending lullaby.

The bow that breaks shall never fall,

Baby hangs, waiting for the thrill of the drop.

Arms wide Abeona weeps for a rescue that is never needed.

The cool evening bloom shall never feel the warm kiss of Apollo.

Nor straighten and jut out its chin with the coming of a new day.

Never grip the shore in defiance of Poseidon’s hammering rage.

His armies frozen in glistening arches crested by white cavalry.

The whips of their masters hanging in the air, holding their breath, waiting for the charge.

Zeus holds The lifeless forms of Eros and Aphrodite.

The only blush on her cheeks a memory of her labours lost never to be needed again.

The maidens meditation uninterrupted as his arrow loses it’s potency.

Even the milk-white flower remains unmolested, unstained, unloved.

The Gods fall impotent.

Their uses are lost in the past and future that can never be.

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