A Throne of Unlived Days

Beneath the roots of time’s old tree, where breath and silence wed,

I wandered lost—alive in name, but not in heart or head.

No war had come, no blight, no fire—no tale to earn me death,

Just days dissolved in lukewarm dusk, and years that held no breath.

🥀

My soul was worn like second skin, grown thin from “not quite yet,”

Each hour wrapped in cautious thread, each passion hedged with debt.

No battle cry, no lover’s wail, no art to claim as mine—

Just absence dressed in mortal clothes, pretending all was fine.

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Then came a chill, a hush of crows, a crown of coal and smoke—

Lord Hades stepped from deeper dark, amused before he spoke.

His robes were stitched with silence, trimmed in thorn and funeral thread,

His grin the slow and knowing curve of one who deals with dead.

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“Well this,” he said, “is vaguely grim. You’re breathing, but not much.

Another soul who spent their years avoiding life and touch.”

“I’m not… I’m not done,” I stammered loud, “You’re early, Death, I swear!”

He chuckled. “Mortals always plead when I arrive and they’re still there.”

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“But I haven’t lived!” I cried aloud. “My story hasn’t spun!”

“You had stories,” Hades said. “You simply wrote… not one.”

“You had your days—your slice of fate—your minutes, bold and free,

But squandered them on fear and doubt, then blamed the gods. Not me.”

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“I waited for the right time!” I said, “I planned to make it right!”

He raised a brow. “How strange it is—how mortals wait for light.

As if the sun will beg you move, or fate will plead, ‘Begin.’

As if your bones aren’t built to break, you fear to graze the skin.”

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“You feared the wrong things,” Hades sighed. “You feared to shoot your shot.

And so you sat, and so you stalled, until that was your lot.”

“You think I come to strike you down, to steal what you could be—

But no,” he said, “you called yourself—I’m just the final key.”

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Then came a scent of moss and fire, of springtime turned askew,

Of seeds that bloom in underworlds, and grief that gardens through.

Persephone, the dusk in bloom, walked barefoot through the shade,

Her smile was soft, her gaze was not; her kindness never swayed.

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She knelt beside me, hands like balm, and brushed my cheek with grace,

Her voice was low—like distant drums—but warmth across her face.

“Oh love,” she said, “you did this, dear. You wore the days like thread.

You spent your years in folded arms and wondered why they bled.”

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“I tried,” I said. “I meant to change. I wanted more, I swear.”

She nodded slow. “Intentions bloom in neither soil nor air.

They need the doing. Need the flame. You had the tools, the ground—

But chose to water weeds instead, and hoped for lilies found.”

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“But it was hard!” I said at last. “And no one showed me how!”

“Of course it was,” she said, quite plain. “That’s life, my dear. Not now.”

“You waited for the pain to pass, for perfect paths to show—

But mortal days are meant to bruise. The bloom comes through the blow.”

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“You weren’t cursed,” said Hades then, still leaning on his grin.

“You just declined to play the game, and forfeited the win.

No tragedy. No epic fall. Just couch and screen and fear.

The softest end I’ve ever seen. You ghosted while still here.”

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“Death’s not a thief,” Persephone said, “he simply marks the sum—

And yours was silence stacked on silence, waiting for ‘to come.’”

“Next time,” she said, “should such exist—don’t wait to be assured.

Pick something. Risk. Get bloodied. Cry. Be *seen*. Or be interred.”

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And Hades, stretching with a yawn, said, “Well, my time is tight.

There’s plagues to weigh, some kings to drag, and poets scared of night.

But you? You’re light. A breeze, not fire. A name no echoes claim—

Another soul who watched the world and never staked a name.”

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I closed my eyes, and let it in—the truth, the weight, the sting.

The grief of having never tried now heavier than anything.

They took my hand. They led me down. No screaming, torch, nor flame—

Just stillness where the “should have beens” all whisper out my name.

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So if you read this still alive, with heart and breath intact,

Don’t wait for fate to knock your door or for the stars to act.

You are the myth. The risk. The grief. The start you long to see.

Live now, or find, too late, you joined the quiet crowd like me.

🥀

This poem was written for Poppy’s Promots #13, and honestly it really resonated with me. I don’t write much poetry these days, but a simple little prompt like ‘Hades and/or Persephone” is sometimes all you need to get the juices flowing! If you’d like to get involved in weaving some Greek Mythology-related poetry, check out Poppy’s original post below and be sure to link me your piece!

🪓 Like what you read?🪓

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Make a wish —

for wilder words, sharper truths,

and more wild-folk with wild hair doing wild things.

Each offering stirs the water, feeds the fire,

and helps one such beast keep writing beneath the stars.