Beneath the Silver Leaves

A poem

The featured image was created by the author using Canva and Picsart.

underneath the silver leaves
where whispers curl like smoke,
I trace the lines of ancient tales,
half-remembered shadows
of gods who once strode
the earth like men,
veins of mythos running
deep beneath my skin.

I feel the weight of stories,
each word a pebble,
dropping into still waters,
rippling outwards,
touching unseen shores
where the Fates weave
and unweave
the tapestry of time.

in the labyrinth of thought,
I stumble upon Ariadne’s thread,
a silken promise
of escape,
yet the Minotaur’s breath
still hot on my neck,
every turn a question,
every answer a riddle,
the Sphinx’s smile
curved in mocking silence.

Apollo’s lyre, plucked
in moonlit groves,
a melody forgotten
by the dawn,
but here,
in the shadows,
it lingers,
a ghost of music,
haunting the air.

I see echoes of Narcissus
in the still pond’s mirror,
the reflection
of a reflection,
beauty trapped
in the eternal gaze
of self-love,
a narcotic bloom
in the garden
of memory.

and in the distance,
echoes of Olympus,
where thunderheads gather,
Zeus’s wrath
a distant rumble,
Prometheus’s fire
flickers in my palm,
a fragile light
against the encroaching dark.

underneath the silver leaves,
I breathe the myths,
myths that breathe me,
each exhalation a story,
each inhalation
an invocation,
until I become the legend,
until the legend
becomes me.