She spread out like sea foam, the white tips
circled and roared until her legs took shape,
then her torso, and finally her curling tendrils. A pale
golden glow lit her face, her hands held no arrow, soft
fingers clutched a mirror. Her vanity shone back at her.
She walked as gracefully as a swan with head

held high, arched neck. So many loved her,
and her passion escaped into her Eros, her cupid.
Aphrodite became the fantasy,
to rush after love and die for love
like it was our mission. Her passion
passed to us, and we remembered

the death of Adonis.
Her heart ripped and peeled,
but she pushed forward, she did not stop.
Her angel of love fired arrows
through the night. Eros’ spell trapped
her in the grips of pain. Love after love she lost;

man after man worshiped at her feet, but one
denied her. One stood,
and her wrath sprang up.
Passion took form like a two-edged sword
crumbling him to his knees.

We learn from thee, oh Aphrodite. May passion
touch our lips. May it move our hands to grasp,
our feet to tread. Let passion take root
through peace and war, love and hatred, life
and death. Give us your passion, dear Aphrodite,
and we will follow your path.


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