Dionysus

Thrice-born child, of fire and vine,
From mother’s ash and godly spine.
Twice from womb, once from a god,
He walks where mortal feet have trod.

Youngest crowned of Olympus’ throne,
Yet older truths are in his bone.
Before the thunder, spear or shell,
The grape had whispered myths to tell.

He comes in laughter, cloaked in song,
With dancers wild and fever strong.
A cup, a mask, a shattered chain,
He offers joy, he offers pain.

Yet not like those who rule with spite,
Dionysus forgives the night.
He knows the ache, the drunk, the lost,
The soul unmade, the heavy cost.

His rites are wild, his mercy deep,
He wakes the heart the gods let sleep.
Where others judge, he pours his wine
And says, “Yours flawed—but so are mine.”

So raise a glass beneath the stars,
To madness, healing, and old scars.
For though the world may bruise and bind,
Dionysus still lifts the mind.

2025 ©