Urban shadows,
In the slanted sun from glass windows.
Helios’ chariot spraying gold of blinding beams,
settling into a slumber when Artemis’ moon casts pools of white under stop signs.
Urban shadows,
In my sister’s voices, while they are pelted with tear gas.
There is War in their blood-
the spirit of Nike and her spear.
Silent gaps and sickly verdant stairwells,
Pluto weaves through threads of smoke.
And by his side, Persephone,
In red robes, holding out fruit for those with cardboard houses.
Urban shadows,
On metro seats, and dark trees in the park.
In quick footsteps, Hermes lies,
elevator spotlights and puddles sent flying by tires.
Urban shadows,
as Patroclus watches another train leave a loved one.
Eroded hearts, and deathly cold handholds;
Scenery moving away from home.
City nymphs looking out windows smudged by mist,
Satyrs dancing to Bacchus’ melody in run-down pubs.
Demeter’s essence in small balconies of petunias and bougainvillea,
And three-day old fruits, sold around the corner.
Urban shadows exist,
In the places that classics once filled,
The old gods are breathing life into every chasm-
The old gods are not dead.