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Cruel
Hopes
At her highest she rose above tips of waves
That curl up at an isle’s base. So Scylla saves
Her
strength to swim from a quicker purpose
That boils the Styx to Oceans. The surface
Screams “Glaucus!”
and runs away. He could not see
Who she was, or who she said she was to be
To him. Forever pleading for unresolved
Sentiments that, although no doubt undeserved,
Were louder than any goddess’ cruel hope
To ridicule. Had
she known what true love was
In a man, she’d found the world content. He does
All he can to win her affection.
Too sad:
It fell from clouds overhead with rain. It had
No place to go but ‘round again. And nowhere
To
stay until he sought her from somewhere.
If
Galatea
If Galatea had not come to life,
Just after Pygmalion’s steadied knife
Scraped away the
crust of hate in dried clay,
No one, not even he, would find a way
To die a little. Enough for jealous
Deeds to
stir his fear too long in restless,
Frozen seeds; dormant. Within a senseless
Wish far from stars. At night, a heaven
stands
Dumbfounded above the statue. His hands
Trembling to chisel down all that has grown
Too much for him to
hold in. Engraved stone
Could not breathe a soft touch nor life steal
Through rock. If only Galatea were real.
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