Crooked be the road that leads to Ithaca. For hubris has blinded me, like Polyphemus. I grasp for answers but feel men in sheep’s clothing— Who was I to question Poseidon’s teachings?

To live porcine in gilded halls did not make me a king, For beauty ages, unlike Calypso’s graces—it wasn’t meant for me. Leaving lotus petals like broken dreams, I embrace reality. Seven years I have sailed—will three more make prophecy?

I accept that my crooked path may lead to distant shores. Hopefully my Penelope will be there when I land; If she’s not, I’ll still have become a wiser, older man.