Who Worships Who? Poem by Belle Violet

Oh, it's tough
to compete with
a deity.
Especially one
so good looking
and handy.
If he has
stormy seas for
blue eyes,
if his hair rivals
the color
of tumultuous skies,
if he's fire
all the time,
except,
in your arms,
bare,
if his skin is carved
with random colors
and random symbols
here and there,
you
can bet
his
whiskey-laced breath
will beckon
your deepest
confessions.
Who would ever
run
from
such velvety
irons?
More Loki
in nature,
than Zeus,
that doesn't
really matter
when he's looking
at you.
For me,
that mischief,
sometimes,
washes off,
and those blue seas
of color
get darker
and rough.
A storm rushes
in,
clouding his vision,
and I'm all
that's on
his
horizon,
until
he opens his eyes,
again.
Maybe he has
the
touch
of Poseidon..
A pugnacious
being,
except,
around me.
I am
the wax of
his icarus
wings.
The temperance
and moderation
that keeps him
from being singed.
Still,
don't cross him,
he'll be Hades
if he has to.
His gentleness
for me
never extended
to you.
He lights
a whole room
because I spark
his fuse,
in much
the same manner
as Thor needs
his hammer.
As the strength
behind his hand,
an ever-there
companion.
Zeus kept armed
with a side piece
of sunshine,
would that
surprise most?
That he recharged
when too weary
to throw even
his own bolts?
And, what would
extinguish
a bull
full of fire?
Whomever
he can burn
down
into ember,
until soft ashes
are all
that's left
of her.
Only, then,
he snuffs
like a flame,
his electricity
faded,
and he soothes under
my cold,
tiny hands,
zapping
the last
of the energy
from him.
And, oh,
as he rests,
as a tameable man,
this mild, mighty Zeus,
unaware of
the gravity
of what's in
his hand.
Worth more than
a thousand knees,
bent,
at his whim.
He holds
a goddess
that worships
a man,
and oils his beard
as her
offering.
She guides
his purpose
from fire
to lightning.