Legend of Hyacinth

In both service and solitude. In both envy and love. In both haze and yesteryears. I will bow. Tomorrow, I will bow; the day after, I will…

Death of Hyacinthus, Nicolas-René Jollain | Source

In both service and solitude. In both envy and love. In both haze and yesteryears. I will bow. Tomorrow, I will bow; the day after, I will bow. The complexities of physics muddle even the truest of arrows. The reaping halos beckon for a softer landing but they are returned with a silent response.

And it is your duty, and your duty alone to interpret this silence as “no”. Sweet golden albatross. You sing a highlighted melody with a quicker pace than my infantile heart.

Beating, beating, beating. Stepping stones I throw while impatiently awaiting for Aristotle. For the likes of answers to my humming questions. Not the song of inquiries and curiosities, though. I instead wait for the murmurs to have a doorknock. Play with me in between your fingers like idle figure-skating.

The clay cremation of my abdomen speaks in a different tongue than which I have been used too. Used to the ridicule of routine overtaking the overpass and skipping over the important sand-drawn lines of adventures. But the faeries can only pity you for so long. And the fruit will invariably rot if you do not consume.

And so without disdain — nor knowledge — I consume. I weep at the wedges of divinity stuck in between my teeth, the ghosts of holy warriors. I weep at the archangel that christens me the Boy that shall carry Hyacinths, lest with eyes. I weep at the sultry piano keys that dawn inside my mouth before I try to sleep.

Arise, gentle myth. From the shoulders of the bruised pebbles. These humble pebbles of which you used to sit upon and gaze unto the honey-rabbit above, swimming with the stars as your embers burned out for a final time.

Arise, gentle myth. From the shoulders of negated funerals, of the moats that rose above their duties and created a multitude of moats around your palms & teeth.

Arise, gentle myth. From the shoulders of the wise old man who mirrored you in ways that could never be fathomed in this universe. You walk, mildly. You glow, poised with a milky grin. I know you are awake. I know that I, too, am awake.

Arise, gentle myth. From the shoulders of poetry that would once leave you well-rested with mere sips of starry-fluid. That the gender of your breath would cause heartache upon heartache. Lest the vague overtones drowned you out.

Arise, gentle myth. From the shoulders of the unquenched philosopher. Society weeps louder, now. Society would screech were she not bound and gagged by the crucifix she built. Fire-truck wrists fortify firecracker dreams that last only seconds.

We are the embers, now. We have not the pleasure, but the forceful obligation to birth the single-kissed caterpillar tree-houses with innumerable marble columns. So rapidly engrossed in our affairs, we must lead the workers blindly. We must love the touch of their skin unconditionally as we do.

We are the embers, now. We are the new founded kingdom destined to obliterate the salts of the Earth of past & present. To run our forgotten nails across her crevasses. To run our forgiven hair across her teary-laid waterfalls. I beckon you.

We are the embers now. We have the mythological & civic duty to capacitate our infinitesimal lungs into a forever known lust of thought and tender politic. Gentle and curved with touch.

As our feet will trip, as our minds will flirt with the whiplash of tomorrow we cannot allow ourselves to fall from the backs of the Phoenix Hyacinth — more majestic in beauty than in sorrow.

The attached generation of child sculptures — with enough magnitude and velocity to cause Michelangelo to fall to his knees.

We are slowly reaching critical mass. We are reaching our destination at speeds never possibly witnessed prior to this current breath.

We must take ourselves — hand in terrified hand — to new heights. To not guide us to Utopia, no. To instead guide us to the world, braver than this.