Thunderbolts sent from Zeus
and all the other gods above,
while the skies and storms
lay in his mouth of grace.
My legs and arms become electrified,
revived,
and oh so alive.

My burning soul starts laying
in the Elysium fields
or in Tartarus fires,
I could never really know the difference.
But I knew,
that feeling had no place in Earth.
Only in the skies upon,
or in the grounds below.

He was no Dionysus,
or any kind of Baccush,
but I felt like
I was drinking from the Cup of Nestor,
when he kissed the wester of me.
Then he breathes spring in my back,
and every desert in me,
becomes a garden of Eden,
and then
all’s lost.
There’s no reason,
or season.

I robed the amber light
in his eyes,
but oh,
I was no Prometheus
to give it away.
I kept it safe,
somewhere far away.

I hid it there, in the violet beds
of Antheia,
or in the sunny chest of Amphitrite
begging to have one last sight,
of that bright bite of light.

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