Tag Archives: death

Affair with a Lion

Standard

Forgetful past of stolen soldiers
sought by hunters.
Perhaps a dance of blade and blood
and bone.
Perhaps forgotten, but untainted,
unaltered,
of soldiers, of hunters,
of death by stones.

And yet, naïve, and innocent,
and blissful to a fault,
I catch a whim, so close to home
that may be deadly to my heart.
But breeze and bronze
together in a crown
find me forgetful of my past.
And without fear, or even
acknowledgement
I continue to walk my path.

Into a den
of deep and dark
and bats hung by black walls,
and drips of drops
of tears from old
by stalactites they still fall.
Into a cove
of dark and dim
from which echoes loud snores
until the beast of king
of here
awakes and then he roars.

On soft white feet
child-and new
with mud caked around ankles dry,
I pad across soft,
smooth stone
and ask if I shall have life.

The bars have closed
behind me.
The boulders block my way.
Only forward
am I allowed
only here, and stay.
And blood stains on walls
and floors
and the lion’s maw,
and flesh caught bare
and tattered and torn
upon his claw.

And his deadly eyes
flash amber,
and his silent air
screams bleak
and my future with him
here in his cavern
seems less than I might believe.

And my innocence turned
black again
and heart captured in fear;
an affair with danger,
with a sauntered grasp
with lines to which I must adhere.

And my ashes
brought to surface.
And my face pallid
as cold ice.
And his golden mane
glows brightly,
and his eyes
mirror mine.

And I see the blood upon him
and the tears that lay below
and the gashes in his chest and paws
that were hidden by sorrow.
And the injuries that no other saw
for the hunters hunt him too,
the lion, so powerful, so strong,
hurt by selfish truce.

And the lion, so yet cold
to fight on every hunter near.
No one may pass, forbidden glass
shattered by deaf ears.

His amber eyes run me up and down,
suspicious of my stance.
Am I just another woman with a gun,
or will he understand?

With hesitant steps
on scarred-up paws
he treads across pure stone.
Gazes into my cautious eyes
and is suddenly less alone.
Places a paw before me,
a truce by any thought.
I take my hand, place it on his
and lose the past that I forgot.

And I am innocent again.

And he lays down
on cool black stone,
watching me with care.
I sit beside him,
lay beside him,
and somehow I feel him there.
I feel his claws, his deepened breath.
The smell of thick-dried blood,
hanging humid in the air.
I curl up beside him,
fingers in his mane,
a kiss to his forehead
and a smile with his name.
An affair with my killer,
the prey loves her hunter,
danger, and terror,
and folly-ful blunder.

And yet, my lion, so cold,
so distant,
alone in the world,
and I as his mistress,
his heart and his love
his silly little girl.

Finally starting to get back into the hang of things. Granted, I don’t think my writing is as good as it could be, I guess that’s what stress does to me, but I’m getting there.

This is mostly about the danger of love itself. Putting all of your heart into one person could very well kill you, and has before. But when you truly love someone, you become a child again, and take a risk. And sometimes, it’s worth it.

And the Tide Betrayed the Ocean

Standard

It rises, then it falls;
like breath to a newborn child.
Natural, habitual,
if somewhat inelegant.
But it rises, and then it falls.

Until the morning the sun did not rise,
and the moon hung low in the west.
An eye in the dawn,
watching over all things,
the owls that remained,
and the birds that desired to sing.
The crickets that cried
for the morning to come.
Legs rubbed raw and red,
but the sun seemed to be gone.

And it only fell.

And waves in the ocean pulled back into a pulse,
storms tattered lost villages with a thundering force.
Utopian Atlantis shut up  behind its closed doors,
to keep shuttered the violence of the tempest-like storm.

And it did not rise.

And darkness remained, only lit by the moon,
until a child looked up and saw that it was gone too.
Forgotten soon, with the sun, and no more of use than the dew
upon grass blades that surrendered to the loss of the youth.

And it remained.

Until the oceans were still with dark waters turned black.
Fish that swam blind, like those in caves with the bats.
Birds that flew low and still lost their track,
and people that cried for the loss of their past.

And so it was.

The darkest the world had ever been.
Every morning was still, every night, silent.
Rain that resisted until normal again.
The longest night Earth had seen, many years in advance.

The lives crashing down, a plague of sweltering ash,
the world coming to a close, and becoming so fast.
Hopes ever-fading, ending ever near,
and pleas that relied on so-far silent ears.

Until the sun rose.

High in the sky on a gold-white throne,
spent with a crown of rubies and light Earth had never known.
A night that now ended, after the hell that had been,
until the tide betrayed the ocean again.

Every couple of years, it seems there’s someone telling us that the world is going to end. In fact, our next one is coming up in October. Judgment Day! Predicted by the same man who said the rapture was to happen on May 21st. Remember that? Yeah, well I may not be free of sin, I suppose, but I think I’m good enough to still be raptured. And I see you’re still here too. What, you’re not good enough? Look, I’m a Christian, and I really don’t mean to offend, but those predictions are bullshit. The Bible says quite specifically that no one will know when the rapture is to come.

So what do we Christians (SOME, slightly messed up ones of us) do? Well we try to defy what we’re supposed to believe anyway. Makes sense, right?

Oh, and 2000? What happened to Y2K? And June 6th, 2006? Le gasp! Somehow we survived those too! We must be cockroaches, us humans. Geez. Oh, and let’s not forget 2012. We’ve got the Mayans to thank for that one. I’ll say this much, I graduate in 2012. If those Mayans happen to be right, I’m going to be PISSED. Anyway, I’ll step down from my soap-box.

What I meant to say was that this is my version of the end of the world. I don’t think it’ll be a meteor. In fact, to tell the truth, I don’t even think humans will be alive when it happens. I think we will have so far screwed ourselves by then, it won’t even matter, we’ll be long extinct. But, if we are, this is how I see it. I think it’ll come slowly. Like darkness. Things will just slowly stop until everything stops, and all life is over.

Just one theory, in about a thousand of them.

A Sigh of Lamentation

Standard

Upon a night of autumn cool
I took heed of curious song.
As soft as breeze through treetops,
yet it did not last too long.
And as tumescent as a sunset
clad with a blanket of orange clouds.
Choking on a swelling throat;
as I listened, it grew loud.

I stepped outside into a tempest,
or the remnants of where the tempest had been.
Trees fallen over, shingles torn and scattered
and found myself uneasy again.
A dead calm in the silence,
the air stagnant and stale.
A taste of bitter tedium,
threatening and bare.

A simple oak in the yard,
where dozens of others once stood.
But worn, torn, and tortured now,
the ground littered with splintered wood.
And beneath the great oak,
where the song was derived
lay a hag of a woman
with madness etched in her eyes.

Her hair fell as string,
loose and silver long strands.
Her chest heaved as she moaned
as if she could not understand.
Her eyes grew wild as I neared,
she reared on hands and her knees,
backed away from me quickly
as if the frightening one here was me.

She shrieked a long howl,
with her eyes closing so tight.
I put my hands out
and asked if she was alright.
She drew away from my touch
and hissed as I spoke.
Screamed yet again
but her rabid voice broke.

She looked at her hands,
her gnarled fingers with fear.
She shivered and shook
and asked, “why am I here?”
Her hands clasped together
as she turned back to me,
inching backwards with care
and heaving breaths silently.

I asked her what was wrong,
if she needed my help.
She stared for a moment
then leaped back with a yelp.
Fell to the ground
with a thud in the grass.
Cried mournfully
with a voice shattering glass.

I kneeled down beside her
and held out my hand.
She stared once again
with eyes that did not comprehend.
“Gone,” she said softly.
“All gone in a blink.”
I hesitated a moment,
wondering what to think.

What to make of this woman
with tangled silver hair.
What to make of this hag
who had just appeared there.
“Stop!” she screamed, frightened.
“Please, haunt me no more!”
Now I was frightened
quite more than before.

She sighed softly, crying,
tears streaking grey cheeks.
Made a whimpering sound
that made her seem so small and so weak.
She stood, like a ghost,
pale white as the snow.
“I shall tell you the truth,
and then I shall go.”

“You will lose who you love,
keep him close, keep him safe.”
I stared blankly at the woman
and watched her evaporate.
Into the stale air,
cells scattered and disappeared,
and soon it had seemed
that she had never been here.

Two months to the day,
my love died of no cause.
My banshee spent nights
singing lamenting songs.
Out my window, under oak,
she wept sorrowful tears.
Spent with my love beside her
for the following years.

I fled my dark ghosts,
into phantom lands of city,
believing that my love and my hag
would not follow me.
But the howls spent the nights
lamenting dusk after dusk,
until the night I left too
long after my life left rust.

And in death, I joined hands,
with the woman and the man.
Became a part of the veil,
and could finally understand.

I’ve always been very interested in old folklore, especially the tale of the Irish Banshee. Now granted, I lead the story somewhat askew in this. Normally a banshee will only appear when a family member is to die, but this is another trial chapter that I never finished and decided to turn into a poem instead.

To go ahead and clarify, no one I love has died lately. To tell the truth, I’ve never had anyone truly close to me die. My great-grandmother died when I was six, but I scarcely remember her. I just love the folklore of the banshee. It’s one of those stories I’ve been told and reading about ever since I was little, and it’s been ingrained in me. Personally, I’m hoping the show Supernatural does and episode on it. They’ve been everywhere from Heaven to Hell and back (several times) and they can’t find a banshee? Come on.

The Boy in the Box

Standard

He is innocent.

And the people wear black
with masks of mourn on their faces.
They pander and amble
and speak of prettier places.
And prettier times,
the days he was alive
as if they have any idea
about the boy with rain-splattered eyes.

Locked in a prison,
black, and laced with red rose,
the darkest void I imagine
but how can I know?
The people in black
are hugging me and crying.
Their tears are unwanted,
in pity, they’re lying.

This place is a facade,
a charade masked in black.
The boy in the box
would give it all back.
They got everything wrong,
from the dress to the seats.
They don’t even realize
who he was to me.

His brother approaches,
and holds me in his arms.
Whispers condolence,
and then he is gone.

I am seated with this crowd
of fake mourners and the like;
actors and actresses
trying on a new life.
The priest at the podium
says a few words,
turns his gaze on me,
and gives me the stage.

I stand, I approach,
though hesitant still.
I don’t have the words,
and I never will.

How will I say
who this boy was to me?
How can I describe
in sentences they can see?
He is no one to them,
just another name.
Another face in the crowd
who left short of his days.

A headstone in the park,
where I insisted it be.
How do I tell them
who this boy was to me?

I turn my gaze to the wall
in the back of the room.
He is standing there, curious,
one of the few.
No one else cares,
I realize then.
No one else wants to hear
about my dearest friend.

I will tell them anyway.

I look again to him,
I beg him to stay.
I beg him to give me
the words I should say.
I beg him to hold me
the way he used to.
I beg him to forgive me
for all the things that I do.

But he is curious,
and I shall receive no help.

I turn to the crowd,
and murmur a thought.
“I love roses,” I say
with a helplessness I forgot.
A sound of confusion
passes by each actor’s lips.
They turn to each other
and ask to each, “What is this?”

I clear my throat softly,
raising my voice.
“I love roses,” I repeat.
regaining my poise.
“He loved roses as well,
loved them because of me.
I cannot make speeches,
I don’t know how to be.”

But all the same, all I tell them,
the don’t deserve to know.
I must tell them, however,
the boy must go on.

I tell them of his sadness,
of his deepening scare.
Of his wonderful smile,
his calculating stare.
“I loved him,” I say softly.
“And I always will.”
I gaze back at him.
“Despite everything, I love him even still.”

“But I am the reason he’s gone.”

The boy’s gaze changes,
with words I can’t decipher.
I step down from the post
and watch them call me a liar.
The actors hold me so tight,
they say it isn’t my fault.
“These things just happen,”
they say. “That’s all.”

They all tell me it’s not my fault,
but sometimes it is.

I killed the boy with the rain-splattered eyes.

This was based on the trial chapter of a book I never really finished. I ended up gaining more interest in a different story that I was working on, so this chapter is the only one I had. Since I had nowhere else to put it, I decided to just retell the story in a poem and post it here.