Persephone

Persephone
by Georgiana Bowley

The copper sun hangs in a sea of blue,
a ruby's dust in ochre hue,
resplendent, always new.

Tenuous light surrounds her,
delicate and frail, resounding
with a booming brass beat
raying out like spider silk:

it freezes, forms a crescent,
wrought of silvery light.
The bow drawn tight.

The ivory horn resounds.
The Moon is born, in sound and light,
within her form a star, soft white.
Green fire flickers at her edge,
nascent flesh emerging..

The star drifts, becomes enmeshed
in the fetid warmth of blood.
Colors, mingled, become mud.
The flesh, far from bright,
gives underworld delight.

In this jeweled cave the Goddess sits
upon her throne of amethyst.
Her snaky robes are nerves of feeling,
writhing like snake scales, gleaming.

Her gold eyes, hot disks,
catch our souls in pangs of bliss.
In her hand a ruby stone,
the blood, congealed, of everyone
who ever dared to look at her.

Queen of night, her robes of fire
are all souls who died from desire.