Patroclesian Memory

I remember being love-struck
By that lyre-bearing Styx-borne warrior.
For me
 so much of His rage,
A flame,
 was neutered to gentle breeze and bluster.

The Furious Flurry of death-blows
 borne on His razor-edge
Were just as gentle
e’re my egress,
not from passion, like our song-heavy kiss,
but from its lack.
War for House Atreus,
unheated by personal stake.

But this Apollo-like warrior,
played the lyre for me.
I sang for Him.

So as Hector, that son
of Troy sundered flesh with edgéd grace
I knew that my lover’s war
Would bear so much more weight
For my passing.

Trojan eyes saw my face beneath commander's helm
and saw a boy, well beloved,
And knew that he was damned.

But as I passed
There was no joy
In knowing I was avenged.
Instead there was grief
In knowing
 my Heart dragged through the dirt
the bloodied bodies of Trojan Pride,
Damning himself to Parisian Death.

How I wish He had chosen the slower death,
So much less lasting in memory,
that I might’ve seen Him age and grow,
And be forgotten by all but Me.