Her hair was ebonne darkness but it dazzled like Arcturus. Her eyes were wells of soulfull longing and were too much for man to gaze. Her countenance shown like one thousand suns and she smelled of roses and lavender. When she passed your mind was swept away. A simple thought of her would visit joy on gloomy sorrow. And when she came your way—you’d pray she’d stay until the morrow.

Although simple to see the reasons why-it is difficult to explain the hold she had on me. And the poetry that is Persephone weaves in and out of the dragon’s main as the tale is told. And as it reaches culmination—her hold on me enfolds. She means the world and everything in it—but that doesn’t seem enough. So if we add the universe that almost sums it up. Her voice is like the waves that crash softly on the sand. And her silver lips draw you close like the moon pulling on the water’s surface. The wind touches her body and gently caresses each curve before it continues on its course. Can you imagine her glory and her becoming?

The serpent of yesteryear scratches the onyx stone and sends sparks to and fro in time with the swishing of its tail. Its tongue flicks quickly between its teeth as it tastes the air. Puffs of noxious gas escape its nostrils with each heavy breath. And all the while the stirred aroma has the taste of death. Each step draws a shudder from the heavy earth and if you watch the trembling flowers you can foretell the beast’s great and mighty girth. And it causes you to tremble. Tremble with a freight so primordial you cannot yield a scream, but only hope with clench-ed jaw this somehow is a dream.

The beast seems forlorn if you match its’ gaze and you can tell from scar and wound the number, of its’ days. The mighty dragon is adored—but not by man or beast or any creature of the realm. But by the Gods who share with it the origin of the land. The foul beast seeks to and fro whom it may devour and if you tempt to try the beast, you will see your final hour. Can you imagine her glory and her becoming?

Her walk reminded many of the sway of grain, as in the amber fields we played upon when we were young in the land. Her laugh played out across the scape with the timbre of the flute, and mesmerized we all became as she sung us summer tunes. My Persephone was magnificent and majestic to behold- she was the source of joy and hope and reason for story told. Her hair moved like a dandelion given by the wind a start- never quite together and never quite apart. Watching her is like watching children playing in a stream, where the brook is bubbling over rock and mists their faces to keep them cool.

She listens like you are the only sound ever to be heard and her face makes you feel she wants to understand all your words. One against the world it seems but infinite by her side. I long to be with Persephone, does she long to be with me? She knows the time is coming soon where our fates intertwine—where the glory of the maiden fair becomes a child of mine. And when we speak of these lofty concepts, in earnest be they true-there is no purer love to be had-then the love from me to her. Can you imagine her glory and her becoming?

A mighty roar drives the raven from the tree, the beast is on the prowl and other creatures flee. The power from the broken solitude is like a gaping wound cut new. The beast thrashes through brush and thicket, driving closer and closer to you. You can feel death standing the hairs on your neck. As your pace quickens you know you cannot escape. The beast has come for you and you will succumb to your final fate. Crash! The stony ground crumbles beneath each mighty gait of the beast. The dragon senses victory and acceptance of your fate. Determination flees your limbs and you feel the cracking of your bones as the teeth of trepidation meet, ending the flicker of your soul. Can you feel the glory of her becoming?

I meet her gaze and I know it is a dream. My corporal self is ever sundered and this cannot be what it seems. She holds me gently as only Persephone can and as she whispers in my ear, I sense a wholeness once again. I feel my fate flee the bedside of my doom- and ever softly I hear my maiden sing the loveliest of tunes,

“Can you see the glory of my becoming? Can you feel the whisper of my love? Can you sense the magic of our fondness? Can you feel the magic in my touch? My love for you will reproach the dragon and draw your spirit free. So as you hear my whispered song—return my love, and be with me.”

The dragon let me fall from her mouth, broken and my body torn. What was once a living being crumpled to the cold ground and my hope bled into puddles at the feet of the beast. Somehow I didn’t feel cold or pain. Only the soft hum of Persephone’s voice coursed through my mind. She was gorgeous to behold and I was enthralled by her as I could not be by death. From near or far she held the gaze of all and defeated the dark lord’s hold on me. Her beauty shimmered as if her countenance were wind-swept. And she had me completely in death as she had in life. Can you imagine her glory and her becoming?

As I passed from gruesome death into glorious life, I sensed a truth that had escaped me time and time again. The tail of the beast had that ebonne sheen that shimmered down the back of my Perspehone. Her eyes could glow like embers as the eyes of the mighty beast. And all nature bowed to her wonder as it did in fear of the dragon once unleashed. Intertwined as one from beginning and for eternity, Persephone is the Dragon after all. Can you imagine her glory and her becoming?