Something Follows Me

I try to outrun it,
pacing into the tall grass of the fields
where the under-creatures scurry and
chattering insects leap from harvest heads,
even wading hip high under oozing nightness
absent any human companion,

something follows me
and I sooo want to turn and face it -

again,

for though I struggle,
I've built immunity
and want to exercise my
peculiar muscles,
make the adrenaline flow
against this troubled foe,
toe to toe.

It always chases me
because I carry it with me
wherever I go,
                    portable,
I make it so,
I want it so,
attached to me,
this fault in my pocket
that follows free,

my mishapen character,
a pattern in my mind will
distill into the reality
I need to see,
recognize it clearly,
an image burned
in my surroundings manifest,

so comfortable
that my psyche dances through,
knowing that
my coping skills
can thrive,
feel alive,
clash blades,
against this thing
that follows me.


©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Aergia Will Rest

The sun is up and Horme is moving about.

She never rests.
"Zing, zing," her blade sings
on the sharpening stone.

The sun reflects her face in the killing steel.
A tight smile, she is to her task,
hilt to stinging tip,
grinding the length of the blade's edge
for battle this day.

Eager, Horme sees the battle as a dream -
     
     rehearsing her moves like
     virgins dancing for the gods.
    
     The field just over
     the shallow river is her temple.
     Men rush to meet her,

     beauty, they try to embrace her beauty
     - a long reach for them,
     lying on her green altar,
     sodden in their own blood.

I see the glint, the restlessness in her eye.
"Zing, zing," her blade sings
in the middle of the camp.

I recline in my chair,
sweat beads dot my face
in this pathetic season of war.

Horme pauses from her deadly study,
sneers at my canopy of shade,
calls out from five paces away
in a blood scorched jest,

"Aergia, will you not go out with me today?"

I turn away,
my answer rests in a thought
- less than a thought,
I bite down on a grape,
its redness fills my mouth.

Any word I may have considered
dies with no effort,
no escape from my throat.

I hold another grape to my eye,
examining it closely.

"Zing, zing," Horme's blade sings.

©Eusebeia Philos 2013

Written for dVerse Poets ~ Meeting the Bar: Volition & Velleity

In Greek mythology Horme embodies the spirit of intense action and preparation, especially in the furious moments leading up to the first clash of battle. Her opposite, the goddess Aergia, was quite lazy and ill-prepared. Such lovely contrasts the Greeks gave us. I felt these ancient spirits might suffice for Anna's request at dVerse Poets Pub: write a poem that incorporates the concepts of volition and velleity. This my attempt.