The following is the beginning to a poem of sorts. There are quite a few more stanzas to it, and more to follow, but this was the bit I wrote first, so, while perhaps not the best, it’s my favorite section. The poem might end up being called “Mt. Ida, the Flight”, “Sunder Not”, “The Unity”, or something better that I haven’t thought of yet. That latter seems likeliest to me.
Sunder not Beauty, Wisdom, and Power
Yea, though sundered presented
Though self-presented so sundered.
Flee not Paris’ rule, but his choice, and,
While fleeing deep schism, thyself be enthralled
By the yet three in One, Enigmatic Divine.
Helen, Solomon, Xerxes, though had, will but swallow,
Self-swallow, swallow selves in the furious flurry
Of the goddesses’ mimicry, each aping each,
That was, is, will be the webbed statistic of satraps,
The wife-state gorged sob of Qohelet’s despair,
And the devouring, prize-discharging inferno of Troy.