We have both fallen to death for goddesses,
but only one of us reigns over the void with drawn wrath,
though in the east one may only spy that which hefts his trousers;
he meanders across the black bowl with a hollow heart
in search for she whom he will not attain,
he is fractured and frantic,
his cadence unsteady and unwavering,
but on he will march with boundless intensity.
Cosmic winds breathe whispers upon his ears
that both give and dispel hope in the same breath,
this hope a titanic dominance that anchors his soul
but is squandered as soon as it is bestowed,
this hope which gives him vigor to lift moons
and which saps his strength to catatonia,
this hope which discloses through an insincere smile
that Artemis will one day requite his desire.
But I will always be afraid for his relentless life,
for Orion’s heart balances on the point of a knife,
and he will wander the heavens for all eternity,
though everyone knows he is far from free.
Some nights he is supremely pristine
and others he is murky and subdued;
his disease is immortality,
a monumental assignment to endure unwanted,
so his illuminance he wastes on unseeing eyes from below
as the shadow of industrial light blots out his own sight,
but no matter the degree of luster upon his countenance,
he will never be witnessed by his goddess.
It is not for me to describe her leaving,
nor the manner in which he heaves empty sobs into the black,
but we both have grown to mourn a setting sun
whose light is but a candle to Orion,
for the disappearance of that which gives life to all
only reminds him of whom he lost,
the one who could save him from an empty life
amongst the detritus of sentiment and stimulation.
So I will always be afraid for his relentless life,
for Orion’s heart balances on the point of a knife,
and he will wander the heavens for all eternity,
though everyone knows he is far from free.