A poem.

[_commonwealth]

Lately, my eating disorder has been caught up in my love of ancient literature. Therefore, I bring you a poem, for what is lost. Not triggering, & enjoy. :)


Troy

On my balcony, it was the last of the fresh fall days.
After that, they all became a blur
Of Achilles and Patroclus, and the words of blind Tiresias.

Under my feet, the leaves crunched,
Forced reds and orange against my whitened feet,
And beckoned me, ever onwards, away.

The brisk wind fought through my clothes,
And made me think of cider, fresh McIntosh,
And, just once, of my father, sitting home.

It was then the great books always seemed heaviest
Just as the summer passed away, as if in mourning,
As if they too had lost so much at Troy.

I could hear in the cool descending frosts
The voice--collective--of all the heroes, now weeping,
saying “What has passed? What has passed?”

Great Odysseus alone still struggling,
Now Achilles and Agamemnon are long dead,
Their rotting bones no more, no less, than red leaves
Tumbled to the ground.

And thus, I think, it was,
The last of the fresh fall days
Before the calendar wheeled into winter:

The heart-rending cries of Menelaus,
The regret of dead Achilles,
And, ultimately, Ajax’ unabated rage.

I stood forth on the balcony,
Tipped my libations to the gods,
And wept,
For the single thought of how much I had lost
At Troy.