Hades and Persephone
Samantha Wolfe
A princess made of overturned earth
and thorny roses walks willingly
into the underworld because
she loves the king; a king made
of forgotten last words and the cries
of ravens, a man who reaps nothing
but heartache. It’s important to note here:
she wanted this. Flowers grow best
when planted in decay. She grows warm
in his platinum arms at night and hides her
fantasies of a love without ruin
in his forests of jewels, in his fields
of lost and tortured souls. Millennia of death
and sorrow held close to his chest
thaw at her bright springtime, his heart
set alight on the rays of her laughter.
But time passes, as it always does,
measured by hushed laughter, kisses soft
as butterfly wings, yearning glances outward,
upward, to a realm sweeter than his.
He allows himself to melt into the blind
comfort of being loved, forgetting
this is a privilege he will not be allowed to keep.
She returns to her world of light,
tears falling like dying leaves,
and he retreats to his throne of ice
to rule with a shaking iron fist
and bruises shaped like pomegranate seeds.
He puts a lock and key on his heart,
throws the key into the River Styx,
makes a vow to himself —never again.
She still weeps when snow falls.