Mortal Ambrosia

[This is a bit of hectic poetry that came out of me after I watched Troy (it was aight). I haven't yet made much sense of it.]

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As mighty as we may feel, we suffer in this brave new world, incarcerated within a forbidding network of tangled wires.

The heroes of classical times used to hurl their javelins deep into space, where the great Forms of perfection hovered, and would pull the divine pearls down to earth. They were rich with truth and knowledge, a precious bounty normally hoarded by the gods. Praise was deserved only by the flesh that wielded the instruments, and the passion which swelled in its muscles. Humankind was naked and free.

Now when we dare reach to the skies for answers, we merely skim the bellies of stormclouds, depressed by the layers of our atmosphere and their merciless gravity. We aim our arrows timidly through the electrical netting and fire, following with our eyes the arrow on its arc of feeble hope, into the clouds, and downward in inevitable defeat.

When we go to collect our arrows and return to our humble prison, we notice that the tips of the arrows shine darkly - we touch our fingers to it and notice that they are wet. We hold our fingers to the sunlight and see that they are red, we touch our fingers to our tongues and taste that they are sweet. The sweetness is intoxicating, and we become wild and foolish. Starved, we cut our tongues on the arrows as we lick hungrily at them. We wet our fingers and drag them across our faces, we paint our lips and kiss deliriously. We grope and caress and attack each other with stained hands, drowning ourselves in the nectar that our arrows have brought us from above. We know only that it is blood, but we feel that it is love.