You wither under these blue skies,

as if anything more coruscating than that black beacon of death will hurt you. I admire you because of it; how your coating seems infinitely polished when icicles are writhing, waiting to impale your flesh. That sweet kiss of rime nestling in your roots, halting crimson orbs in their fruition. It fills me up with such a warmth Persephone herself becomes jealous. But none the wiser was Hades, the old fool. He was eager to burnish these woods, dried up mud sticky under his foot, rejecting springtime with frost bitten showers. Saying happiness is not happiness if it no longer includes her. Such a selfish deity he is. That is why he is cursed with abandonment, biding his time until the lunar turns into his solar.   

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