Helen's Fall

Oh, Helen of Troy.  For ten years you spent a blissfully autumnal 'captivity' by the hands of the Trojans.  Oh, they say you 'longed' to be returned to your beloved Greece.  A war tore through both empires, drenching the land with warm blood, pouring into the Aegean until its salt turned to red tears.  All the while, you cried out to Athens! Sparta! Thebes! Your homeland!  But, I am not convinced by any of it.

I know you Helen all too well.  I know what crocodile tears well up in your eye sockets and inspire the poets to call to their gods.  I doubt even Zeus would have seen the lie that you uttered under the alter, in the ashen tray of incense.  You fear your secret, hidden deep within your rancid heart of maggot ridden meat, will be revealed.  Well Helen, it's too late.  I know what you want; I know what you truly desire.  

I call to Pan, to Dionysus.  For they, among the gods, alone are immune to your charms and wayward temptations.  I call to you to help me with her lies, bring clarity to my mind and heart, and, like Boethius' consolation of Philosophy, lift me out of this bodily suffering and concupiscence and in the arms of a forest at the edge of Space and Time.