Ambrosia R. Harris

no need to fix what is not broken

They do not speak of her rage when she would pull rain from the clouds and the flowers beneath her feet turned black. They do not speak of how she laughed when Icarus fell from the sky in a golden plume. They do not speak of how she grew flowers because she enjoyed watching them fade and die. They do not speak of how she pounded at the gates of Hell until they opened or how she let the pomegranate juice drip from her smiling lips. Or how even Hades trembled under her gaze.