Primal Days

Although each day is short he tempers time.
Persephone counts the cost of each hour,
In the cold hell he's conjured, she'll incline
Her body; so, she'll lie and he can tower
Over her pale form. Hades waits for frost
To gather, chilling her cool torso. Pain
And cold commands ensure that she is lost
To any vernal thought; and, once again,
She finds the blessed heat: the well-struck belt
To mark her flesh as his. He makes her wish
That cocks won't crow again as every welt
Makes her appear a warming, winter dish;
But, she accepts instructions: she must court
Each primal day, when, tempered, she's well-taught.