On a Statue of Hades

The space the god behind the glass 
Beholds holds me, but see me he 
Does not. Imagining the throng 
Of souls the wind like sparks has passed
Before him to the dark beyond, 
That he has ceased to notice seems
Appropriately divine. His right 
Hand holds his hellhound’s chain leash tightly, 
While in his left his double pronged 
Staff of office is resting lightly. 
In life, he would have worn a coat 
Of gaily-colored paint, or so 
I’m told; but glowing here, a ghost 
In cold white marble, suits him most, 
Now that he’s joined his silent host.