Ares

They curse his name in battle cries,
Where blood runs thick and thunder flies.
He rides where mortal fears ignite,
The flame that feeds on hate and fight.

A clash of steel, a roar, a scream,
He moves like smoke within a dream.
No prayers to him are made in peace,
But only when the swords release.

Yet courage, too, wears Ares’ face,
The heart that quickens in the chase,
The fearless soul that dares to stand
With shaking spear and trembling hand.

Though war is cruel, he is not blind—
He knows the cost that’s left behind.
And in the stillness, post-affray,
He weeps in silence, turned away.

But only she can reach him then,
Beyond the rage, beyond the men.
Aphrodite, soft and sure,
The balm no armour can endure.

She winds her arms around his form,
And in her kiss, he drops the storm.
For even war, with bloodstained hands,
May long for love that understands.

So name him god of wrath and flame,
Of broken limbs and fleeting fame.
But do not forget he leads the brave—
Not just to glory, but to grave.

© 2025