Arachne

Fresh roses crumble with slow rains,
Thorns tearing lacy spun silk, your
Rags fit to be burned,
Drowned in my bloodied envy!

Shall it be you, threading, mingling
These broken hands of time-
Of no use to me, which
I banish from my night?

I made it so, that peace
Comes only in rain;
In undone quicksilver strand
No sorrow runs unspun.

Immortal

It was here I saw you first,
Not mortal, but still
Plundering old dreams, roses
From a looking glass.

In youth, the porcelain dolls
Smiled upon cold hearts,
All left far behind
Waiting for a real girl.

Then I realized, with
Dripping paint staining
Your cold shroud, that
You were the one.

Persephone

She was the face of spring,
Irises flowering deep in her eyes, falling
Sweet rain beaded and swept
An unpinned curtain of hair.

Like fire, she came, feverishly warm, dancing
Her laugh, the lyrical refrain
Etched in the trickling current-
Crystal living threads in the ice
Whispered that spring was here.

Of course, that truth wilted,
And all blooms fell to dust
When she ceased to dine with me.