Apollo

He looked at me with deep set eyes.
His bow line pulled to a vibration.
Never have I met such a person. Even if he was a god.

Many called him a ‘lesser” god because of his devotion towards poetry and music.
Never has anyone seen him as the god who keeps us all alive.
The warm, yellow sun is his burning to please us, mere humanity, with his presence.

He once showed himself to me, a mere mortal.
He was enveloped in a halo of yellow light.
He walked towards me on his sandals made of mere goat’s leather.
His humbleness was penetrating my heart.
He wore an insignificant ivory white tunic.
His body was glimmering, but it was not as impressive as the other god’s.
On his back, in gold and silver, a bound book of poetry.
Handwritten in silver ink.

In his hands were a wood bow, with fine, gentle insignias of suns and words.
A quiver of arrows, each with a white feather of pure truth attached to it.
If he has to use violence, he will do so with dignity.
He walked towards me once more, I looked in pure astonishment.
He changed shape.

He was now in a pair of blue jeans,
A pair of black and white sneakers
And a red and blue check shirt.
He looked like a normal person.
He wore reading glasses.
Like a normal person.

The bow and arrow still in his hands,
He shot a single shot into the man behind me,
A gun in his hands, he was about to kill me.

My own poetry book in front of me,
A single line in silver,
“Don’t stop writing, it helped me in life.
Sincerely, Apollo.”