Oenone


You were Paris Alexandros,

pig herder.

Nothing.

And despite this,

I cared.

Life was a rich, vivid

tree-nymph green.

Sometimes you hurt,

but I could heal those wounds.

Then you were called

to consult the high powers

of the world around us.

They showed you more.

You were found.

Crowned

the long lost Prince Paris of Troy.

And off you went

chasing long blonde hair

shown in a vision.

You abandoned me.

I told you

some day

there would be a wound only I could heal.

But there your similarities separate,

for you learned

to heal yourself.

Still, sometimes,

awash in the misery of memories,

I swing from branches.