O Hades!
Persephone was never yours
to keep, to steal. There are
some wounds even time
cannot stitch, cannot heal.
For your hell is too dark a ditch
to mount; with too many stolen hearts
to count.
Her shackles are
of roses, not chain— love
is the stubbornest stain that
doesn't wash away, even with
the waters of Lethe.
Demeter, kind mother of your
bride, has wept day and night,
Has struggled to hide her agony,
But her...