They Tell Your Tales Wrong

Oh, Icarus,
they tell your tale like a tragedy,
a warning to the children of today:
do not aim for the stars, for you will burn.
If only they had seen your face
just as your saw that sun you so sought,
just as the flames swallowed you whole–
if only they had seen the way you smiled
with lips made of ash
as you spun into the roaring waves.

Oh, Persephone,
they tell your story like one of misfortune,
a ploy to teach girls a subliminal lesson:
do not trust a man of darkness, for he will
tarnish you with shadow.
If only they had seen your face
when Hades rose up from the ground,
when you measured out the pomegranate
seeds–
if only they had seen the way the juice
dropped from your lips like blood.

Oh, Lucifer,
they tell your life like it was an affliction,
a clever trick to young boys:
do not try to defy God, for you will
be tossed into the pits of hell.
If only the had seen your face
when you tumbled into the darkness
of the dead,
when you realized it was all yours and
erected your throne–
if only they had seen the way you placed
the crown of skulls upon your head,
and laughed.

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