An ornate diadem glimmers
Against her onyx tressed profile
The invisible ichor on her hands
Glows under the olympian sunlight
Murderer, a jealous murderer
A gray area of morality,
Plausible deniability safeguards her
A net of temporary safety.
Rhea above, what has she done?
Sweating and running through the golden streets
Her feet carry her to her wretched seat
Clouds form, a storm awaits
And she’s running in disarray
Even as an injured bird tries to fly
When the sun is shy, clarity tends to hide
And in fractured shadows of history and blood
In all misperceptions one can imagine
A cuckoo can also look like a killer dragon.
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