And as the poet is in love with his creation,
pouring his divine confusion
which form the scene
all on their own,
Hades watched a thousand dying butterflies above the Acheron,
shooting star leaves melting
with this everlasting song of grief -
lost souls trying to save themselves
through holding onto black waves in ecstasy
for never having to face the light in their eyes,
he was awakened.
In death they fell
and with them their eggs,
putrefaction of slow motion dragons
spinning beds on Acheron's black surface,
warming what shall be
the birthplace of many
building bridges between
the twilight of their mother's fleshy ground,
a sight of life on his putrescent river,
- his cold shoulders shiver -
covering volcano cliffs
at his feet.
Striding in tune of falling wings,
freezing hands dive slowly
through the riverbed
in snowfall of these many
once there was a fig tree
decorating somber blues.
"Confusion is a sensual state."
"These corpses would call it abuse."
"You did what you had to do -
the lost, they crave for similar hues,
loneliness has to swim through shadow rivers,
they would never know what light was,
if it wasn't for you."
He held her hand that night,
opening the fig with his teeth,
their souls made from the same star,
their flesh, pale clay,
eyes glimmering from afar...
contractions for the wounded,
left where darkness could feel the cycle of
day and night.
- "Only in her eyes" -
- "Only in her eyes" -
He wished her ashes could have cried,
so he did release the disease
to please dry ground.
The Acheron born
in tears forlorn
of a body loved
under the fig tree
which should have kissed the sun,
despite preset destiny.
- Her movement, melody feeding fireflies in underworld's ties,
her voice, a caress to remind -
Hades grabbed his heart
where her rooted arms
were touching the source
under layers of black sand
and silk worms shat bridges between liquid graves,
not even habitual waves were able to stop
these equilibrists from dancing
above this once started ****,
the legacy of rainbows
in rebirth of
capturing hopeful bays
have risen ways
in his shameful prays.
- A ladle carved out of the sky,
right there where his sister died -
he scooped silk bridges
into his hollow heart,
stitches in corners,
tension in twilight
a song to be sung
for the fragility of her caring fingers,
gentle masters of the art
of turning black to gold,
he created the harp.
Honey drooling eyes.
Hades conquering Mars.