even Apollo was afraid of the dark sometimes.

Apollo, you froze

as the sunlight of your eyes grew cold

the lyre, smashed across these cobblestone streets of Epidaurus

where you sought sanctuary

when the flowing melodies ceased as water in hard frost, unlike before

the day you remembered this place yielded no crops

in refuge of quiet, inquisitive starlight as you looked up

for once in your life.

Do you mend the sores of your intuition?

Your moral infection, rampant, plaguing the shoe less mendicant

when the bow became the archway to your temple of wax

and the arrow you left behind, atop the mangled olive tree

the one the muses grew bored of pursuing, on your behalf

before you knew if you had anything to give to your son

before you knew of Daphne, and how it would feel to watch her leaves depart her person.

And I recite what I see for when I close my eyes I see fear, instead of the tomorrows hidden in your eyelids.

The city waited for you to rise

and I also waited to see if you could heal yourself, you shining oracle:

be fearless again.

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