...I have no idea. I like the title, though.

On Aphrodite's Grave

It is such a beautiful sin -
a discovery come too late,
out of escape.
Her silks reveal nothing
except shadows and lies and
a thin veneer of dust,
all in the eye of the beholder.

A waltz!
Across the tile floor,
so plebeian, so chipped:
she wished for more drama,
a tragedy perhaps
to dull the sting of idolatry.

In finding herself
she found her bones as well -
chalk-stain reminders
that hitting rock bottom
still yielded pebbles of wisdom;
she found that children's songs
are the most complicated
precisely because of their
vulnerability, their negation of death.

She wears the gaze of a ghost
that has finally managed to
lose herself in the halls of her castle,
the sea,
the undulating past.
The orchids wither a thousand times
before her ceaseless judgement.

Love is wasted away by
sheer dumb animal optimism,
she thinks, and
finiteness is too much to hope for;
instead it mocks her, haunts her,
holds her to her reputation by
chain links, old world fears.

Her life is not a surrealist painting
of foam and adoration,
nor of hearts and arrows.
They can't see her,
but she can still see them -
the hopers, the lovers,
the followers of fate -
her poorly-designed fate
of ever deserting fame.

[whistles and looks away]