Orpheus

Emboldened in cold reflection,
The mind takes its wings,
Lent from the altar of dreams.
Mine, mine, it says
And I am to win.
There is no other.

That dream, I built-mine,
The people left behind, mine,
The forbidden luck emptied, mine,
The time, which kneels for me to plead.

The fake sun crumples, emptied
Of the pride it kept from us.
It becomes real, for once-
A place of sworn, forgotten foothold.