Ithaca.

he sits on the jagged edge of
crumbling stone glued together
by cruel time's embrace
a wretched gargoyle perched
feeding on hopeless Notre Dame romantics

she counts the moonlit scales
that shreds reptilian tears
playing Russian roulette
on an infinite revolver
'he loves me, he loves me ...not?'

he impales his underbelly on the pointed arch
seeping an ache through
stained glass. hopeless defiance against
Siren's wet refrain - is your Odysseus
seeking a common safe haven?

his flying buttress removed
so Gorgon tendrils follow
the tail end of Styx daggers to complete
masonry's cardiac lobotomy.

but a familiar tug gives push
to grey claws on greyer belfry
ascending, shedding stoneskin inertia
grasping empty air, to barely contain
a longing half-satiated by precious vantage.
she fletches an arrow.