I heard the cries of the boy Telemachus, 

the whines sounded through the halls, 

and when I obeyed his commands, I faced the cruel master. 

Drips of darkness, 

stains of battle wounds that would be glorified, 

blood pooling, onto 

mangled corpses. 

I faced the son of pain,

glory lurking in his eyes, 

yet underneath, 

I could understand the anguish 

in his beating chest. 

The corpses were the tangible mounds,

but the body cavities that remain, are haunting.

His pain could engulf whole towns, 

the citrus saltwater,

would inhibit the living. 

He was broken, tormented, 

in ways that the weaver could not 

untangle. 

She would try to reach the depths of his own creatures, 

monsters, 

whose agendas were motivated by 

the evils that lay in the deep 

seas.