Classic Poem

Silken, golden wings
catch the sunlight,
fierce golden eyes
the equivelant of sun
on a brazen shield,
fierce spears and
swords antsy for
war.

Silly little bird,
the muses coo.
Stupid warring thing.

Apollo raced his chariot,
thirteen racing things, clashing and
neighing, distressed.

He passed them with simple ease
and laughed at
the red-faced God,
fuming.

He swooped,
lazy circles aimlessly
falling over
an ocean blue,
foaming white-caps going in the
direction of
the bird,
eager to watch him
fly.

His golden feathers now
racing moon-light,
He tried harder, faster,
passing an owl,
drunk
on moon-shine.

He lost,
fog scouring his view,
and he aimlessly floated
onward,
heedless of the
sun.