Hera changed her form so often that Aphrodite found it difficult to keep pace with her.Bound by jealousy, hatred and sinful lust, she wanted her, loathed her and craved her with various degrees of inherently changeable emotions.
Right now,
Hera belonged to the Dusk.
To Rust.
And to trust.
Also Mistrust.
Strangle, push, pull and Rape.
Bind her hands with Steel Tape.
Devour her like Cronus into mangled shape.
Puke her out when tricked.
Let her rust.
To dust.
Sprinkle some poison.
Make sure all's in broad daylight.
Or the dead of the unholy nite.
Dusk, she must not step on.
Else all would be gone.
Thorns should grow where she lies.
Resurrected at every breath of shies.
'Eclipses' her Marigold desires.
Tattered and torn petals shall be burnt to coals.
None but none would play any roles.
Time and Time would carry her pitiable soul.
Wind would refuse her.
Lights shall not scroll.
Refuse to free.
In Maddening glee.
Rivers of death
Would queen her make.
Shovels and spades should her rake.
Barbs bespake.
In short.
Cocaine snort.
Red Dragon worshipped.
Entrails ripped.
Sovereign Retreat
Stench of filth.
This is dark!
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