You thing of cruel beauty—may all the
Roads you drive be wide and free, may your
Eyes evermore, be
Wild, wild rivers.

Perhaps we never belonged.  perhaps
We lied, perhaps we
Always belonged, perhaps
You have forgotten.

It hurts, Hades.  There is a bitter grave incised
With your star-seeking voice, your
Tales eternal, bound in
The darkest of mausoleums.  In retrospect,
I should have sung, I
Should have instilled melodies fragrant, softened
The wounds, silk on
Velvet-blue blood.  But
No matter.  We—

You've the neatest of cuts.  When you decimated my limbs, the
Velocity rivalled that of light.  Unbeknownst to me, I did
Not exist until my veins burst into chalybeous fireworks, until I
Fell apart.  Please, Hades—


You thing of desolate torment—may your
Joy spark like a hyperborean inferno, may the
Wounded fist of fury within you
Find peace.

Perhaps you will forget, perhaps
My skin, my lips, my hair, will fade, perhaps I
Am a scar, a ghost, perhaps
Our materialization was, is, will—nevermore.

It hurts, Hades.  I cannot bear this weight alone, I
Am remorseful, forever remorseful,
This scintillating push and shove was
Necessary, a mirror to confirm my atoms, particles of glass
To wound me in the most
Volatile of ways, nautical chaos to combat your
Dead air:
Impenetrable as a thunder-cloud, heavy as steel, immovable
As a garrison.  We—