Thousands of years ago in Athens, a temple was built.

Dedicated to the godly patron of the city, Athena, the Parthenon was an architectural marvel and a reassertion of Athenian identity. However, when the British found particular interest in the monuments of Ancient Greece, the statues of the Parthenon were carted off to Britain, and have infamously been kept within the British Museum through law.

Under the comfort of the cot’s duvet,
   the dreamy guitar chords pervaded the cavern and ebbed
   like the neighboring cove.
Echoes, acoustics, and amplification alike, 
   each breath and note suspended by the anticipation of drifting into another afternoon slumber.
Entombed in layers, sheets, and garments alike–
   an almost mummified girl protected by her pillow and canopic 
stuffed animals. 

O’ Jezebel, magnificent and magnanimous,

But whose fury is seething and righteous. 

Who laid waste to Moab, 

Trampling their cities, their palaces, and their coffers? 

Who adorned our women with the finest of silks, 

Gilded our men with gold, 

With the plunder of Moab? 

Writhing within with vehement wroth
In bitterness I speak of my soul
Made from the spent elements of ash
I am like a leaf that is trifled by the wind

And while it is truly proper for a wise man, 
To place upon the rock, his home’s foundation,
I, a fool, am more alike a flowing stream
That never treads one place alone…