Apollo

He walks in gold, the morning’s flame,
A god of song, of truth, of name.
The lyre sings in measured grace,
Yet shadows linger on his face.

Beloved son of mighty Zeus,
A favoured light the skies let loose.
He guides the sun across the dome,
Yet rarely finds a heart to home.

For though he heals with gentle hand,
He calls disease across the land.
A prophet’s voice, so sharp, so clear—
And yet his touch can draw down fear.

The god of logic, light and law,
Still plays with fate’s unyielding draw.
He sees the future in the stars,
But cannot mend his lovers’ scars.

Hyacinth, the boy he mourned—
By discus’ kiss, by Zephyr torn.
Daphne, changed and sealed in tree,
To flee a love that would not be.
Coronis, flame that would betray,
And mother to his son’s decay.

All those he loves, the Fates undo,
As if the sun burns what it knew.
Immortal heart, yet always grieving,
A golden god who keeps on leaving.

He shines, he sings, he sets the sky,
But never asks the question—why?
For prophecy must play its part,
Even when it breaks his heart.

2025 ©