Helen of Troy

As it happens, as it were,
less has happened, the gods concur,
since our last disaster,
which not you but I did commence.
Argive and Teucrian strife, Homer’s Iliad,
compares not to loss of love, we had.
We were great, we were high, we were epic,
With Venus’ love spread o’er us: a pandemic.
Crawled on my knees to beg a Vestal queen,
City of Paris with love of its Helen I’ve all seen,
“Save this wretch, steal me up for another breath.”
“How pitifully you bent—for thus is life—and wept,”
mother of Cupid, divine, replies; but delivers
a despairing soul to his Helen of Troy.
A weeping man is—confused by love—boy.