S I R C I U S H Y A C I N T H

   S I R C I U S  H Y A C I N T H,  B O Y  O F  T H E  S A N D S 
 

" So tell me again, dear. 
What was that story you always like to tell?
The one of scavenging among the dunes? 
Thirst latching its claws along the throat and tongue?
Your god finally hearing the prayers of a pitiful, purple boy?
The one whose colors held thousands of ripples,
The patches of permanent, lavender grains.

Why can't you let truth pour from its vase like the water its meant to be? 
Why must you weave it into an iridescent, elaborate silk only you have come to care for?
Who are you fooling?

Tell us of the insignificant child! 
The one who only happened to have a prowess for observation!
It was all chance, really. 

The ordinary child, wanting the ordinary thing of being extraordinary.
In order to find the one you deemed extraordinary, you fell into a not-so-ordinary place. 
Lost and found 10 years there, some say. Others say 20, perhaps it was 17?

Your name is not even your own, "Love",
You wear your lies as the silks you weave,
Donned so shining, so proud.

You want more. 
All you will ever want is more. 
Enough is never enough. 
Trust me when I say, this hunger will become
Your
Undoing."