The Fate That Is Death
Mindless, heedless, far from seedless.
Bent on using man’s own weakness.
Hades calmly takes his toll.
Empty husks, abandoned souls.
Wont to take all that he sees.
Will not yield all that is his.
Planted deep beneath the soil,
no resting place, this life’s foil.
Expect this fate so deeply flawed.
Yet swear no oath to this foul god.
This poem is my response to Poetics: Persephone, the dVerse prompt in which Sarah asks us to write “a poem that bubbles up from this mixed up family saga, a poem that smells of spring, or is touched by the dark fingers of the lord of the dead.” I chose the latter, Hades.
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