Persephone Thinks of Autumn

By
His deathly cold lips haunt me,
Even as I pick flowers.
His hard blue touch holds me,
With each passing hour.

Spring, summer, cannot save me,
He lusts for my beauty more.
My nightmares warn he waits for me,
Rotted ideas at his core.

I dread his name. His scaly tongue,
Slithers through my mouth at night.
I dread when the time will come,
That I'll sit in his peeling sight.

Pulled down to his death chamber,
To perch upon his marble throne.
His chilling breath drawing me,
Away from meories of home.

He feeds me his ice seeds,
As my joyless mother cries.
Filling his every need,
Scared of the one I despise.

I hate his frozen skin,
His open draping robes,
His wide gaping grin,
The way his body probes.

He holds me in his grasp,
Not ever letting go,
Forever I gasp,
From each ruthless blow.

Each moment I become wary,
Of the time ticking by,
that I'll soon be making merry,
In a world without a sky.

I shiver from the cold,
As my flowing blood clots,
I know I'm getting old,
From death's never ending rot.





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