The God of passion

I knew of a place where I was the god of passion

Dripping desire from my fingertips in which the apathetic nation suckled

Having eyes of auburn nature, I was the fire in every heart

Ignited by flesh instead of spirit chants

I was a fountain, clothed with deity pigments of white silk around my brass body

Clouds were my messengers, engulfing sight into inspiration of those with the courage to look unto me and embrace my sun like face

‘Cut me loose from your breasts’, they all prayed... yet they were breathed from pebbles of purity that i fused with my own soul

Self-sacrifice is what I decided as my fate

Yet mortals of flesh clothing never worshipped my immortal glance to gain beauty-full inspiration, cleansed from a sort of fear, not completely

I wished to be seen as the only river in the drought of their lives

To be the only tree that gave them fruit to eat

Yet, they praised my brother, compassion, never dwelling under his protection

They loved his name as it gave re-birth to wilting souls

But none dwelled in him

This is why he broke himself into rays of hope, faith

For he was too much for such a timid race like theirs

They still fear me, saying 'glance so strong, we can never hold, be the light, but never bright'

Tears are still my oil, they keep my molded body shining, tears of those that worship me

I, in a world surrounded by solid matter that fantasized of becoming long fragments of energy

Dipped in all potential possibleness 

Was still, a god of passion