Apollo Beneath the Whip

The simple slave,
in sweat-soaked sheets,
aims his shackles, and cuts off his hands.
The simple slave,
in smoggy pantheon,
aims for release, and cuts off his head.
Apollo falls asleep behind the wheel.
A scar reopens to a wound
and pleads in a whimper for infection.
And now this great dying beast,
that I've chained round my neck,
in a torrent of feathers, a face of paper cuts.
Fragile tributaries of blood stain powder white wings,
framed and catalogued for collection.
The simple slave,
in fallow fields,
shrugs off his burden,
and falls asleep.