Theseus L Poem by Morgan Michaels

Ovid, or whoever it was, got it all wrong
And for that alone was justly packed off:
He has been greatly wronged, Theseus, poor lad,
Who, closing on thirty, was not longer awfully young-
Behind him lay labors and loves, galore,
Yet mightily his veins swelled with rests of youth,
And the way the light broke and the shadows fawned
On his arm bespoke rests of wild incaution still to come.
His intention was never to leave her forever-
Ariadne, the hypersensitive, the 'I want it all? ' girl,
Little ex-virgin-putta pout artist, loveable,
Perfectly, everything going her way; the clever
Rich, spoiled king's daughter, whom nothing,
Nothing! -satisfied for very long,
There on tiresome Naxos, pig-filled isle of ill-doing,
Void of denizons, much a good thing, too.
Ok, the string was her idea-pretty good,
But surprisingly benign, the minotaur
Those annual tributes you've heard of? Parsnips!
He wanted to ditch the tiresome place, himself!
His, too, a bum rap, poor grotesque.
No, the biggest chore was to slip the bloody thing,
The labyrinth, that is, the madman's brain-child,
Whose every turn led wearysomely on to turn
And the door, one thought, lay always just ahead.
String: a good idea, Then, but this was Now.
She tried to goad him-a man of his gifts-imagine!
To sorry dependency, appetite gone, imagine!
Him, who'd hauled oar alongside Hercules;
And, all else failing, resorted to mothering!
Pet-hinting his marvellous self-esteem
Would vanish without her, leaving him low,
Guilty, angry, useless, weak, alone,
But.....