vinyl plates

apollo
he sits and waits in his lonely chair surrounded by his gold plated vinyls, his symbols of achievement. he waits for the call. something- anything- that could put excitement back into his life. the stories he’s told are stale and their significance has eroded from his memory. 

artemis
artemis pulls the string of her bow- the feeling all to familiar- ready to let loose the arrow trained on the poor animal in front of her. she sighs and lowers her weapon. what’s the point? where was the drive that pushed her so strongly? it certainly wasn’t here. not today. 

dionysus
another day another party. better practice that smile- it’s starting to appear worn and tired. another day another glass. he drinks himself into a hole in the dark and swears he’ll never emerge again. he used to drink to feel the spark of life, to amplify the laughter. now dionysus drinks to forget.

persephone
a dying poppy crunches beneath persephone’s feet. any other time she would have exclaimed in horror and bent to give it life once again. but now she turns and lends it her blank stare. life these days is only riddled with disease and worry. what’s the point? hades is all she has, and she will cling to him for eternity, letting the darkness win her over.

aphrodite
she doesn’t see the pleasure in love anymore. too many cheap endings, too many hearts broken. aphrodite doesn’t come out much anymore, people don’t like to be reminded that she exists. she used to be a reminder of happy days. now she’s a reminder of the emptiness left in the wake of those happy days. for one reason or another, love has left aphrodite’s touch.

athena
what’s the point in being wise? athena squanders her wisdom and trades it in for impulse. she is trying to to buy back lost time. time spent being ‘wise’, time spent 'discerning’. she wonders if maybe- just maybe- if she could go back and just make a split decision- then maybe she could change the events that unfolded. change what was. what had been. so the she trades rationality for rash behavior. a loss indeed.

the gods are washed up and alone, part I

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Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong - Autumn In New York