Before he’d spoken, he had lied,
A newborn thief with gleaming stride.
At dawn he slipped from Maia’s den,
By dusk he’d tricked the world of men.
He stole Apollo’s sacred herd,
Then hummed a song, not said a word.
With tortoise shell and guts for strings,
He birthed the lyre that music sings.
A trickster’s grin, a gambler’s eyes,
He wears the wind and tells no lies—
Unless they suit his silver tongue,
The god of roads since he was young.
He flies between the gods and graves,
He knows the hearts of fools and knaves.
In markets, dreams, and shifting sand,
He deals out fate with sleight of hand.
No temple chains him to one place,
He runs through time, he wins each race.
The herald, thief, and newborn bard,
Forever fast, forever charred.
2025 ©
The Royal Octopus 