I. Icarus is a lonely boy sitting in a cafe, with ink blistered wings tattooed into his sunburnt skin. He falls into beds like they’re seas and loves suns who don’t give a damn. Wax coats his fingers and he laughs, not knowing why.

II. Cassandra lives in a room made of four windows. Strangers kiss her in dreams as she screams. She sees all, and none believe. “Unstable.” “Wicked.” “Tragic.” They whisper, protected behind planes of broken glass.

III. Achilles offers triumphant smiles as he holds up bloody knuckles. He fights wars on street corners and shares his victory with his beloved. He runs in the moonlight, until his feet ache and his legs collapse. He knows the world is meant to be his, and he will conquer it all.

IV. Pandora listens to the universe from the back of a philosophy class. She inhales chaos and exhales despair. Sweaters cover scarred wrists and misery clings to chapped lips. She worships with hollow, faithless eyes. They call her hopeless as she smiles, dried skin cracking. They know nothing.

V. Orpheus plays his music in cigarette haze filled bars. He swallows pills and wine and never dies. He sees shadows flicker when he looks over his shoulder, consuming him. He forgets.

—  Myths and heroes, they adapt too part one | p.d

THE SOLDIER above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier

who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war.

— Douglas MacArthur

He said “your eyes are much too bright”, the things you say are never right, the sins of all the world lie on your head. So when you see me look the other way, cause lately all I do is play. In a sin, considering my middle name is ‘shake my body’.

           The universe is not made

                 of atoms.

                 It’s made
               of tiny stories.

                                --The Tiny Book of Tiny Stories
Ad Astra [✭]

I. Persephone braids wild flowers into hair that falls down her back. The smiles she throws over her shoulder are like the edge of a sword - sharp and deadly, like beautiful things often are.

II. Cacia stands on street corners, her head held high. She sells her pleasure in bathroom stalls and back alley’s. She is a whore as well as a dealer, and she leaves her lovers as addicts.

III. Pasiphae dances nude in the moonlight. She chants her magic to the night. Blood drips down her chin and onto her breast as she laughs, bitterly. She knows only the stars will hear her now.

IV. Calypso searches for absolution in the bodies of the damned. She swallows moans as she roars with desire. She chains her heart to the sea and refuses to fall in love. It’s for fools anyway.

V. Calliope writes her poetry on napkins in tiny cafés. Her epics are covered in coffee rings, and her eyes are bright as she chews on the end of her pen. Ink stains her bottom lip. She tells history as it happens, says it smells like a mocha latte.

—  Myths and heroes, they adapt too part three | p.d