leaking epics

     I.
The crack in my ceiling idly opens to let Calypso’s
clueless hands reach for my body like a rag doll. 
I’m handled with care despite my bedrock mold. 
I am a new tragedy to tell. A new vase to seal together
with mortar that whispers perpetual tales of courage
and bravery on sacred lands. I remember a home
yet I do not remember such a place. The tender feeling
of Hephaestus's warmth and the sound of Poseidon's zealous
sea’s in the background. My memories replaced
by the sight of Helios tucking the world in with Hypnos
psychedelic blanket that covers me in dreamy colors. 

     II.
The sound of a motorcycle riff at 5 am submerses the air.
The neoteric smell of early morning gasoline 
leaves a lingering stench for an everlong 5 minutes, 
and the muffled sound still bounces off of the Amish hillside
along with the creaking of its inhabitants. The leaves rehearse
their morn song in a lethargic and graceful manner, swaying
with the whistle and responding with a rustle, bidding 
the starry night goodbye and welcoming dawns bloom. 
The machine's modern light fades into the background
while the sun casts a heavenly glow on the quilted scenery. 
My now unsilenced brain involuntarily encapsulates the reverb
of the mufflers deep roar as if it is the rooster's first-morning call.
I recount the visions still barely poking in the back of my brain
as the crack in my ceiling leaks droplets of epics from long ago.