Mercury, Running

Run,
masculinity adrift,
You strut your soul, unbridled passion,
at the whistling wings of your feet,
to the heavenly queens
lust, that can reanimate stone,

still wet
is the shepherd’s pipe even now,
as you gaze in Pandora
and entice her fingers,
persuade her to the corners,
open it

you still carry the notions of
others on your back,
bats, stone, redemption, condemnation,
you are their medium:
obedient, dutiful,
but bending ever so slightly
on the circuitous path to Hades and Olympus

you create fire, music, mischief and war,
turbulent lore for the masses.
Not even the golden sandals of your father
can outshine the gleam of dreams, nor
outweigh the tempting bleat of Apollo’s sheep.
They cry,

and you run still.