Ariadne

by Christine Bayeux

It was unfortunate, no matter
Whose version we read,
Ariadne was abandoned,
Mortal or not, forlorn even in
Sleep, a gentle, but temporary
Reprieve. Tears inevitably escaped
Ovid's shaking hand as he penned
Her sad tale. When the drunken
God, her faithless lover, never returned
For his betrothed she beat her
Breast and cried for him.
Sweet, Ariadne, your robes parted
By a cupid not of Aphrodite, and
Yet another womanly life taken,
Discarded and abused by a man.
King of Athens, your second king,
A selfish, Aries no doubt driven
By an insatiable hunger for
Achievement and lust. Did you leave
Him anything, besides your
Essence, begotten by the Maenads?
The faint cries, Evoe, evoe; fade
As your soul flaunts and floats
Away.