Hades

somber god, a dismal fog surrounds him - his

aura a wisp bathed in grey with flecks of aether

just like his abode - home of the now timeless -

memories carved from broken vases of flesh,

spilled and often forgotten - a sea of echoes -

this murk is his solitary, confined by unseen

chains nailed in marrow, rusted by old blood,

look closely and you will see a paling river with

flecks of scarlet faces - he watches them

ripple, hears their cries, this pool of essence -

he is their master, yet he weeps for them, the

lost and found by, taken by, claimed by him in

the smoke he weaves - death’s cold miasma -

yet the chill is calming, no brimstone does he

spew, and his halls polished diamondlike with

care, for he ignores the cleaving ire on the

sunburnt surface - his kingdom is the bone,

the muscle, and the skin together - and he will

execute his forlorn task, keeper of our true selves,

this his burden - the grim stone angel of death.