(no subject)
I’m stuck on a dance floor. The bronze glaze bouncing off the wooden floors remind me of ancient Greek shields, being held up to form a preventative wall from cupid’s arrows. We all are dancing in the war zone between Sparta and Troy, all looking for our Helen. Odysseus survives this Trojan war through wits and talent, tricking the Cyclops and firing arrows through axe heads, and taking hand with Helen before the next song can start. Achilles imperviousness and sheer knowledge of the waltz allows him to grasp what he thinks should be his. But what of the others?
Like Spartans left on mountaintops at birth, some simply drown in a rain of tears and are trampled by the ones doing the waltz. Some manage to stay afloat on the river styx, but turn the waltz into a fervent freestyle, repulsing all but the craziest of Helens.
Others find a Helen but are passed up after each song to search for a supplemental partner. The only way Helen even ventures towards these dancers is when they reside inside their Trojan Horses. Whenever the horse is destroyed, the dancer is deserted, as if his Achilles’ heal defames the dance and Helen. The Trojan horse is his cross to bear on the floor.
Llevame al mundo pueda sonar
Like Spartans left on mountaintops at birth, some simply drown in a rain of tears and are trampled by the ones doing the waltz. Some manage to stay afloat on the river styx, but turn the waltz into a fervent freestyle, repulsing all but the craziest of Helens.
Others find a Helen but are passed up after each song to search for a supplemental partner. The only way Helen even ventures towards these dancers is when they reside inside their Trojan Horses. Whenever the horse is destroyed, the dancer is deserted, as if his Achilles’ heal defames the dance and Helen. The Trojan horse is his cross to bear on the floor.
Llevame al mundo pueda sonar