Cyclops Poem by Conor Dowd

Polyphemus screamed.
It seemed as though he'd lose his mind
behind those leaping lines of flame
between us all.
The fall began with each of us
when we broke a promise with our God.

But he was not to blame,
our ship had sailed off course,
supplied were low,
this forced us toward the shore,
we knew the price,
we all consent and I,
the last aboard,
relent
as we sail into the bay.

Ten times taller than my shadow
and ten times stronger than my hands,
in exile on this broken land,
alone he roamed upon his little island government and state
and the life that he'd create
lay waiting for our drama.

The planets realign themselves
in linear confusion,
the stage is set,
the die is cast,
the puppet-strings held tight and fast
within their maker's hands.

He held us in a cave
within a cliff,
a crevice in the mountain's face,
a lonely place where myth remained.

If we lived a day we thanked the skies
but we know those voices don't reply,
my comrades mirrored in my eyes
remind me of my fate.

But the passion of insanity
or the whisper of a God
conceived in me a plan,
a scheme,
a stratagem.

They call me shrewd and wise
but names mean nothing in a war
when voices fade die in the language of a scream.

The judgements of a God are final.
I know that now.
I didn't then -
and I the last of twenty men.