Recountable only
precisely
because it's so endless-
ly inscrutable—
the real myth
of Orpheus
is first-off—
that he simply
could have done
anything otherwise;
that sacrifice—a mere
ghost for those
sweetest damn
bitter notes of almost—was ever anything
less than
his ideal
and most-
gilded of artifices!
And second—
that he didn't
end up coming completely
apart afterward—rendered
for the rest
of his scrawny
hollow output of days—
deaf-silent, completely
starving, and just going
around—desperately
trying to taste things;
his disposition—piss-sour,
his calloused harp-
fingers—now
covered in mustard.
