season
How odd...the world
spins on
when winter leaves
drop down to break, to fade, to dust upon
When why would I?
not Spring, reborn
from Persephone's hall
where love does not need
eat the seeds...
so well, we'll know
too lust cannot make
the flowers grow
from barren wildnerness
slowing and sowing of
soliptic wastelands
lost
useless
without
a surfeit of nothing
and Demeter wriths on
and wreaks her punishment
demented and fair
sending growth away
as the land mimicks
her soul's mourning sway
infecting it all with grey--
winter--starkness
when even when, I know
the season's chase
rounds around
again to end
where it began...
each year, the time will come
and hell will vomet up
the object of its love
and sun will shine
again
on Persephone's face
and mine
the world
again
with warmth...enough