is this the mythos dreamt
of fervid,
fantastical,
long-begotten concoction?

the schemes of the
paper cynic, stupid youthful,
unearned 
of such titles,
while the current crown so wished
away
and
despite, or in spite
the magnetic situation
drenched
in obligation-
and an addict for it,
anyway.

drinks,
therefore thinks
a haze ‘til wasted
morning,
seeking the divine in
all depravities,
with
penance paid in the physics 
of perspiring
and
the recompensation of
recollected follies,
so, 
all apologies, for
what
is doomed to be
again.

is this the mythos?
or something
more?
something live, and
un-expiring?

either which way, the
ego
on this one,
eh?
to be paying homage
to
some fatuous self
of
yesterday.