Isle of Circe

 

If I told you I was desperate and you were in a position to make me a king

Would you make me a fool for you, and make my brethren serve you as have so many others before me?

Could you cut from divine cloth, a garment so plane so honest, as to the hide the shame of this humble beggar before you?
Would you care if I went on living without sleep, nothing more than feeling my weakness of wanting you, though my whole being cries out to end this sorcery?
How can I be free, if my brother’s only freedom is to serve you?

If I gambled for their lives, the stakes of defeat too terrible to realize
Could I trust you to do what’s most noble, and let us leave this island of iniquity now?
Or must a kill you and return the roses, now dead in the vase, and no other option foreseen?
How could we mortals reconcile this dilemma and hope to win?

If the gods favored my every action as a warrior, renowned as a leader among men, yet cast me adrift on my ponderous journey back home.
Would you lament for my desolation, my hopeless wreckage washed up, and abandon to this purgatory.

Those who have delivered my company and I, to one who drinks from souls of men
What kind bride would you have become, to make for your groom?