Artemis sits, half-naked, 
The bottle of wine clumsily tipped over on the floor,
A man she'd never met before sitting beside her, 
Kissing her, passionately, fierily.
She dares to kiss, dares to touch, but never to feel.
Is this real? Is this real?
His face is burned in her memory, 
Now scattered among the stars. 
Chastity, chastity
A voice cries from afar.
But Artemis, drunk off of cheap mortal wine
And forbidden pleasure,
Allows herself to be taken by control,
No longer a God tonight.

Zeus sits alone, eyes surrounded by
Dark circles and hair, 
Haggard and growing thin.
He orders another beer, watching it
Slide down the counter and watching the condensation
Drip, drip, drip 
Down the side, watching the foam
Slowly pour over the side,
Little brown droplets running down like
Heavy rain on a windowsill.
He should be getting back.
Rain is pattering on the roof above him
And he should be getting home,
Stopping the rain before some
Low-life mortal gets hurt and
Seeing his wife. 
Another woman slides her drink next to his
And sits on the barstool.
Her hair wers a pattern on the back of her
Brown, worn coat.
It looks like a cloud.
"Mind if I join you?" she asks.
Hera, Hera, Hera,
A voice in the back of his mind chants
But he nods his head and watches her slide in,
Thinking of all the things he'll do to her
Later, under the silky covers in his
Mortal home. 
But what's the point? 
What would he do with yet another
Useless offspring?
What joy could her lips, full and moist,
Framed perfectly on her sunken face,
What joy could they bring to him?
He stared into her eyes, pretty but broken.
He should stop the rain before
Anyone gets hurt,
But he leaves the bar and sits, outside,
Allowing himself to get soaked,
No longer a God tonight.

Dionysis sits alone at the bar in a club,
Hearing the laughter from behind him
As people dance and laugh, mostly drunk,
Some high, some mindlessly following along
And swaying, unsure, afraid.
One girl sits on the other end of the bar,
Cheerfully chatting with the man in the jean jack.
His face is well rounded, his jaw, defined,
His eyes a piercing brown.
He puts his arm on her shoulder and she,
In her red summer dress unfit for fall,
Shivers.
He leans in. "Let me
Buy you a drink," 
He whispers in her ear, and she blushes, 
A tacit agreement.
Her pink nail polish sparkled under the little light
There was in the 
Sweaty atmosphere,
And her drink arrived.
He grabbed it for her and, holding it in his 
Right hand, raised it up to her lips.
"Take a sip," he murmured.
She giggled and raised the glass to her lips,
Euphoric. 
He set it down beside her, and she
Leaned her elbow on the counter, sticking 
Her finger in and stirring the drink,
Still blushing. 
Her bright pink nail polish turned a deep black.
"You don't speak much, do you?"
He asks, but his voice has lost it's charm,
Both to the girl and Dionysis, the
All-knowing observer, the intrigued watcher.
It's menacing.
She shys away from him, and he notices, 
Grabbing her hand, hard, until his knuckles turn
Marble white.
She looks around, confused, worried,
Her euphoric world turned around.
She was innocent, naive, 
A little girl out past her bedtime.
"Let's get out of here," he commands, but he
No longer leans in 
Close with a smile,
But he growls under his breath and looks up at her.
Dionysis notices his piercing brown eyes 
Are bloodshot.
Don't let me go, don't let me go, don't let me go,
She chants in her head, over and over, almost
Like a direct prayer to the God in charge of 
Euphoria, ecstacy, 
He who should protect those in need of a release.
Dionysis watches.
She tries to resist, but he tugs on her hand.
She opens her mouth, but a finger is pushed on her lips.
"They won't care, sweetie," he says.
Her eyes are glossy.
Dionysis sits, watching this unfold, 
Letting his foot tap to the beat,
Knowing he should do something,
Knowing he should let her have her night, to
Not let her go, to not let her go, to not let her go,
But he sits, complacent and all-knowing,
No longer a God tonight.

Hades sits, arms crossed, in another
Bland green chair near the Newborn Nursery,
Hearing faint whispers of laughter and 
Late night crying.
He sits, eating an old crumpled bag
Of chips he found on the seat.
A man sits across from him,
Staring off into the nothingness of the window
Behind Hades,
Where the faint light of a street lamp
Trickles in, contrasting with the bright
Florescent lights 
Inside.
The man's eyes are bloodshot, 
His jaw tightly clenched and his arms tightly wound
At his side.
His phone lights up for one second, 
But he takes one look at it,
Then puts it down.
He wears a hat, a 
Dark blue baseball cap,
Which he pulls off to run his fingers through his
Messy black hair.
Don't let her die, don't let her die, don't let her die,
He whispers, like a mantra, unaware anyone else
Can hear him. 
A nurse comes into the room.
His grip on his baseball cap tightens.
Hades, Hades, Hades
Hades hears the chant in the back of his mind
As the nurse makes her way to the man.
She says something to him, something life-changing.
He drops the cap.
The child was supposed to live, to do great things.
That was why Hades came originally, 
After all. 
But Hades blocked them out, 
Taking another chip out of the bag and
Crunching down on it,
No longer a God tonight.

Hestia, alone, sits on the couch 
In some poor couple's house, 
Likely newly married, as
The couch and worn out bed in the bedroom
Appeared to be all they had.
In her hand she holds a lighter, flicking it
On and off, on and off,
Watching the flame dance a few centimeters
Above the box and then disappear in a moment.
She gets up and goes to the kitchen for a glass of water,
Pouring the cool, smooth liquid into a glass,
Watching it overflow as it touches her warm fingers
With an ice-cold feel.
Startled, she drops the glass and it shatters
Into a million little pieces on the floor.
She backs away, not yet used to the chill
Of the mortal universe.
How she longed for the warmth, the comfort,
The control of the fire.
Hestia, Hestia, Hestia,
The hearth cries, standing in the front of the living room,
And with a single thought it burst out in flames,
Stronger than the coal was ready to handle,
Seeping across the wooden floorboards,
Creeping into the corners of the wall, the ceiling,
The comforting warmth spreading across her body as
She fingered the lighter,
Still in her hand.
A little girl, a mere eight years old,
A mommy's girl, brought into this marriage 
Like a downry, 
Awakens from the commotion.
She backs into a corner of her room, afraid. 
Hestia, Hestia, Hestia
She prays,
But Hestia allows the flames to spread, 
No longer a God tonight.

Apollo sits, at seven am, in a dark alleyway,
Looking above at the stars and glowing moon.
Apollo, Apollo, Apollo,
He hears in his head, but he doesn't listen.
He watches as people pass by the alleyway, 
Some frightened, looking up at the sky with panic,
And others, carefree as they hold hands and skip
Or stumble home,
Cloaked in the dead of night.
The sun should have risen by now.
The hobos in the corner of the alley,
Near the dumpster, should have been awakened
By now, by the glaring sunlight.
People in business suits scurry past, 
Slightly slower than usual,
No spring in their steps,
Sometimes chatting away on their phones,
Sometimes looking at the road before them
But not truly looking, just staring blankly
But not really seeing.
Squirrels scamper by, slightly alarmed,
Unaware of whether they should be out gathering nuts
Or staying inside, in the warm, comforting 
Shelter to wait out the dark storm.
This is what the North Pole is like,
Is all Apollo can think as he watches varying degrees of pain,
Or panic, or awareness
Pass by the lonely alleyway.
He should be getting up to Olympus, 
To ride his chariot across the sky.
Light, light, light,
They cry. 
Those who notice, that is.
Those who avidly watch the sky rather than
Mindlessly stare ahead.
Those who look up, searching for purpose.
He should be getting up,
Doing his duty,
But maybe, just maybe,
He's no longer a God.
He can just sit and enjoy the stars.
He takes a sip of an old bottle of rum and sits,
Watching,
Waiting.