the divine
disdain shadowed in the bright of her eyes

there was once, in the empyrean lands,
a charioteer, who drove the amber-swathed sun
across the sky daily, his horses
the gold of the gods' ambrosial chalices,
their bridles the brilliant sheen
of mortality's bloodlust and vengeance—
he was blessed, a master and tamer of horses.
this charioteer, the ageless son
of his lord Sol's handmaiden
and the sun-lord himself—
aureate, so splendidly noble—
he loved an acolyte of the moon.

she was an aphotic creature: dark
of hair, of eye, of heart.
by crepuscular night she and her sisters
danced to the lute of the damned,
the moonlight-rococo harp of those
wronged by the immortals.
alone of all her vestal-garbed sisters,
she had not sworn to live chaste—
but her heart she kept in umbral shadow.

no, no. unthread that, Clothos. that will not do-
he is the sun's child, sister! how dreadfully cliché,
for him to love Lune's beloved.

this charioteer, he loved a sun-maiden,
whose very skin glowed brilliantly
with the sheen of a thousand flames;
and she was bright, burning,
draped in baroque pearls and raw silk,
a fulgent candle in Sol's lofty court.
by starlit night she entertained
the most fortunate, the blessed kings of Men—
her limpid fervor flew upon time's wings
through their mortal halls. she sought not
their death-tinged favor, hanging over her lucent visage
as the ashen pallor of dusk,
yet such favor was not hers to refuse.

he wished to dance with her,
but he was naught more than a charioteer—
his grace given to riding, to steering—
her fluid arcs of diaphanous sleeve and gown
were little more than staccato swoops
when he mirrored them, despairing.
she gazed upon her lord's adulterine son
with faint-concealed disdain
shadowed in the bright of her eyes.

perhaps he would have fared better, after all,
with Lune's sabled acolyte.