• A Messenger of the god's themselves,
    Gliding on Apollo's Shelf,
    Thats braved the shores of hell itself.

    To be subject to prōminentia's pain,
    And to have godlike speed produced your name.
    A mere ash in the eyes of the eternal flame.

    Your surface has clearly been battered and beat,
    Melting away from an unholy heat,
    Nearest to Hell's first elliptical seat.

    Your surface is dry and eternally gray,
    The burdens you steady are to heavy to weigh,
    Wasteful it seems to be burning away,
    The Sun's dull gray ember of no one's great praise,
    But near the great light,
    Is where you've sought to stay.