There is nothing pure about being a god. There is nothing holy;
purity is an illusion created by the mouths of children and you,
you are proof of that.
You are not malicious, you are not as cruel as they are;
(they allowed you into Olympus like someone lets a court gesture into
a kingdom; entertainment, for sport, look but never, ever touch)
The blood stained on you is poured on out of good spirit, of festival and celebration.
Whether this celebration is in war is not your concern, just the art of it.
You are not an angel, you are an artist;
Your medium is soaked in chaos and ecstasy, debauchery, they call it
(the matters which do not make man into supplicants, the colors and the lights
that make them feel alive even when their lives are a blink,
that which makes Who Is Like God; debaucherous?
You breathe glitter and dust and where dryads have their afflictions
you have yours;
of fire, and of wisdom, and of magic,
forming in man the sense that they are not owned by anyone;
the sense that makes you last worshiped: with wine, dripping from your fingertips.
You are not an angel, you are an artist; and artists are brutal and they are relentless.
Artists will put life in their work to suck out again into them,
into something immeasurable, something unbearable and purer than purity could ever be.