He sits on a golden stool, with a golden harp. A halo of northern lights wrapped around his head, the gods sigh in harmony. He is mortal, but he is divine. An unearthly caressing of fingers, that when they touch the ends of my hair, I weep.
For no person can bare his silk hands without crying in dissonance.
I know he is something that cannot be touched by someone as unholy as me.
He sits in a pure white room of linoleum and poppy flowers, and the women in pink gowns and men in velvet suits lounge at his feet.
And I?
I am a sinner.
Because when I play a tune on a bronzed instrument, Apollo rages through the sky, hurling suns toward the mountains. I cause destruction where I walk the earth, and with every footstep the earth shakes in fear.
He is almighty and glorious. Of Aphrodite's pearls and sacred pomegranates.
And then in that case, should I be Arachne? Greedy, and humiliated?
He laughs with that deific laugh, as I bow to his silver shoes.
"You call yourself wicked and godless. You claim to know no God, revere no one but your thoughts and me;
But I am not sublime nor immaculate. Do not denounce me as something that is indescribable. I deserved to be condemned.
The only thing holy about me, is this celestial melody I play on a harp that will one day rust."
I lay destitute in his red throne. It has become tainted, although, maybe it has always been that way.
