When the dog came home from war,
Beaten from Persephone herself.
She grazed the muzzle,
Long fingers of fertility slithering a cig.
“Bow,” She whispered, and a golden sigil fell
Red-glowed and smooth.
The man ran off the clouds
Spinning and disassembling
Into the draft.
Twenty seconds it took
For true divination in the sky.
Canis Major hunted broken bones,
Split, and ravaged tissue.
It fell by the wayside, slumping like a lost fire
Light that Persephone rekindled.
The light dragged a tail between her legs,
Twisting and turning in paradox space.
Fear comes in all forms.
The great plagiarist,
Morpheus saw the tale.
A great story, it was said, to humor the gods.
Fear to feed the cosmos was rumored, and
Persephone was a tragedy.
Her hands morphed into stumps,
Burnt around the edges.
Her eyes slumped, watered, and sprouted a petal,
For elegance is a blessing from trees.
She held harsh pomegranates,
Rough and rigid,
Bleeding rivers from valleys.
Persephone was green and purple,
Covering righteousness with envy.
Spring would come soon.