ONLY the prologue and intermissions are written in poem.

The rest are written in plain English (i.e. prose). 

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10 Years Ago: From the Journals of Patroclus

A gloom spirit was what I carried scores of days ago

When Achilles I followed to his prophesized end

On the fields of Troy away from our dearest home.

How my heart still aches, for the inevitable doom.

That damned Odysseus, with his cunning tongue

Convinced my dearest friend that the essence of life

Was to be found more in the glory of battle and blood

Than in the embrace of family, friends, and lover.

For days we waited at the shores of Aulis,

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The might of a thousand ships surrounding us

Yet the north wind will not break,

It rages on and on, day after day:

It broken men’s heart and mind,

Spared neither ship nor cable.

The time dragged on with the waves,

Doubling itself with each passing.

The army was desperate, brought to its knees.

When all hope seemed lost to the howling winds

Calchas the soothsayer received a message divine:

The Goddess Artemis was vengeful with spite.

For our leader Agamemnon, the king of Argos

Had angered the divinity in a hunt of his.

By his hand, he slew a favorite child of hers:

A hare, innocent, white, and pure.

The soothsayer declared the sacrifice to be slain:

The joy of the king’s house – his daughter.

Life for life,

Child for child.

The royal Iphigenia he called, his eldest daughter,

In deceit he called, promising marriage with my Achilles.

When she arrived bright with hope, he dared the deed,

Spilling his own blood to help a war yet to commence.  

And all her prayers, cries of Father, Father,

Beholden by the entire army, we held as naught,

For we had become savage warriors, battle-mad.

Kindness, love, and empathy had left us all.

But the deathless gods in their eternal perfection

Were better than us in their deeds and mind.

So gentle was she, Artemis the holy,

To dewy youth, to tender nurslings.

That as Iphigenia lay dying in blood,

She changed her heart and there appeared. 

By gentle hands, she healed her wounds,

Left in her place a stag coated in red.

The winds halted, and the thousand ships

Sailed on to battle, glory, treasure, and fame. 

But ever there hang a dark atmosphere

For the king had spilled the blood of his own.