The gods were once nothing,

Minute and minuscule back in the day,

Hercules a limp nobody,

Raising to plump unfathomable fame.

Circe an overgrown weed,

And then bewitching with her overbearing gaze.

Does transfiguration occur whisperingly?

Does it emerge solemnly?

A discerningly gradual affiliation,

Gingerly coursing your rippling spine?

Is it an enticing whisper cradling you to slumber,

I’m parading as a nurturing mother?

Does it envelop your senses under the canopy of night?

Awakening to the beehive shiver redeveloped?

A matter of change throughout the days,

A clatter of cells in disarray?

For I was content and then without the mercy of transition I was not,

A potent punishment of inhabitable rot,

Sand slipping through outspread fingers,

Cheery days I have long forgot.

As I scramble to identify the change,

It is as irrevocably lost,

A requiem to honeyed days,

Six feet under my soul is accompanied by rot,

My harbourless body looming above,

Seek solace it will not.