So here I sit.
I scarce remember which half is which, but now,
with sure death around some corner
or another corner
(Zeus, there are SO many corners, one like the next,
the only way I distinguish them is by blood marks),
I truly want to know: why?

They come one after the other,
old men, crass youth,
cowards to prove their bravery,
brave men to prove their folly.
Not one survives to tell others of my story –
I try, by the gods. I try.
“Please, please don’t make me kill you! This is NOT my fault!”
I say over and over
(Zeus, I say it so often, the same thing every time,
the only difference being the amount of blood that is spilled).

For all of that,
I know I am damned.
The gods do not care that I was created by their mad brother,
put in a place guaranteed to make me insane,
if not from loneliness and boredom, then by
the useless puzzle of my existence.
(Zeus, I ask again, and then again “why,”
painting my despair on these thousand walls
in the blood of these foolish men).

And now, a thousand corners away,
I hear my death approach, at last.
My blood will make hero of a man.
I will sit, just here,
and welcome it with a bull’s roar,
and a man’s tears.


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