Myths – The Royal Octopus

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.

They reign above on thrones of light,
Each god a power, each gift a right.
Immortal hands that bless or break,
They give with love, or take for sake.

Zeus, the storm-king, fierce and proud,
Speaks justice loud, then veils in cloud.
He throws his lightning, cracks the sky,
Yet turns his gaze when mortals die.

And Hera, queen with steely grace,
Wears loyalty like veiled disgrace.
She guards the vows that gods betray,
And scorches all who lose their way.

Poseidon, brother, sea-born brute,
With trident raised and wrath acute.
He calms the tides with whispered prayer,
Then drowns the sailors unaware.

Demeter, robed in golden grain,
Will bless the soil or starve the plain.
She grieves her loss and makes us pay,
In withered field and cold decay.

Then Aphrodite, born from foam,
With lips that build or break a home.
She brings desire, she stirs the flame—
But love to her is just a game.

Yet Ares waits, a snarling cry,
Where blood and kisses meet and die.
They dance through war, they burn through peace,
And never let their hunger cease.

Athena, wisdom’s shining spear,
A patron fierce, a judge austere.
She guards the just, the brave, the bold—
Yet cursed the ones who broke the mould.

Hermes glides with wingèd feet,
A smiling thief, a guide, a cheat.
He speaks in riddles, sings in lies,
And barters truth in clever guise.

Hephaestus, bent with molten art,
Creates the thrones they tear apart.
He builds their splendour, bears their slight,
And sleeps alone, far from the light.

Artemis of the silver bow,
Protects the wild and strikes her foe.
She walks the woods, untouched, unseen,
A huntress cloaked in starlit sheen.

Her brother, bright Apollo’s flame,
Plays golden notes in glory’s name.
He heals, he blinds, he brings the sun—
But always burns when day is done.

And Dionysus, last and young,
With ivy crown and wine-soaked tongue.
He laughs through tears, he breaks through walls,
And leads the mad in moonlit halls.

So praise them well, with fear and song—
Their wrath is swift, their grace is long.
But know this truth beneath your breath:
The gods bring wonder… and your death.

Tag: Myths

Ares

The Twelve