The Plains of Ilium

Rage.

Sing, O Muse, of the rage of Achilles, of Peleus' son, murderous, man-killer, fated to die, sing of the rage that cost the Achaean so many good men and sent so many vital, hearty souls down to the dreary House of Death.

Catharsis

it was as if life plays itself out in short scenes

flashes – slowly, quietly, painfully

uttered out in words, lines by painted faces

we sit, at the edge, anticipating and yearning

somewhere, we tell ourselves,

“let my life not be this” or nod mentally even as emotions stir

“yes, yes, I know what this is”

betraying nothing on our faces

they speak for us.

utter our pain, a scene for our grief

be our sadness, be our souls

transforms

for that one single moment

disengage

they speak to us.

with such vicariousness, we play our lives out

alive, yet not living

emotional, yet not feeling

we purge ourselves

their misery is our relief; their pain, our joy

yet, we fail, no catharsis is real

every purge erodes, eats away

in the end, catharsis never comes.