Post by Eurydice on Nov 2, 2008 1:31:51 GMT -5
((A sestina, written for the occasion of Sarah's birthday 
Edited 11/10/08))
Under the slipper of a crescent moon,
The herald’s thrall shall come to meet her soon.
The herald’s movements—slow, as in a dream—
Direct the flow of moments, and they seem
To shimmer in the light of her fair eyes;
Favor found there—the sole desired prize.
‘Twas many years ago she lost her prize:
The paladin who swore to serve the moon.
They were the whole world, in each other’s eyes,
And even though the world might part them soon,
They’d ne’er be truly parted, it did seem,
As one, they’d love and live and laugh and dream.
These days, those days seem naught more than a dream
Of truth and union she now dares not prize.
Her actions now too cruel and callous seem,
And even in the faint light of the moon,
All that she’s done feels like too much, too soon,
To bear reflection in her azure eyes.
Watching the world with jaded, weary eyes,
She only finds true beauty in the dream.
The pleasures of the waking fade too soon,
As proven by her love, who won the prize
She could not yield: a daughter of the moon.
A love her love held greater, it would seem.
Though hateful, jealous, brutal did it seem,
The herald stole her lover’s child, whose eyes
Grew tainted, dim, in service to the moon.
And when, in waking eyes or in the dream,
The paladin saw his love’s claim to his prize,
He killed the girl, her servant, all too soon.
The herald recognized her next step, soon
(She was not left bereft as it might seem);
Her twice-betraying lover, now the prize
That best would suit her service, in her eyes.
‘Twould not be quick; he’d drift and he would dream,
But he belonged to her, and to the moon.
He comes unto her soon, his ice-cold eyes
And warmth they seem to stir, the only prize
The moon will let her claim, in this bleak dream.
Edited 11/10/08))To the Faithful Servants of the Chaos Herald and Her Ghost
Under the slipper of a crescent moon,
The herald’s thrall shall come to meet her soon.
The herald’s movements—slow, as in a dream—
Direct the flow of moments, and they seem
To shimmer in the light of her fair eyes;
Favor found there—the sole desired prize.
‘Twas many years ago she lost her prize:
The paladin who swore to serve the moon.
They were the whole world, in each other’s eyes,
And even though the world might part them soon,
They’d ne’er be truly parted, it did seem,
As one, they’d love and live and laugh and dream.
These days, those days seem naught more than a dream
Of truth and union she now dares not prize.
Her actions now too cruel and callous seem,
And even in the faint light of the moon,
All that she’s done feels like too much, too soon,
To bear reflection in her azure eyes.
Watching the world with jaded, weary eyes,
She only finds true beauty in the dream.
The pleasures of the waking fade too soon,
As proven by her love, who won the prize
She could not yield: a daughter of the moon.
A love her love held greater, it would seem.
Though hateful, jealous, brutal did it seem,
The herald stole her lover’s child, whose eyes
Grew tainted, dim, in service to the moon.
And when, in waking eyes or in the dream,
The paladin saw his love’s claim to his prize,
He killed the girl, her servant, all too soon.
The herald recognized her next step, soon
(She was not left bereft as it might seem);
Her twice-betraying lover, now the prize
That best would suit her service, in her eyes.
‘Twould not be quick; he’d drift and he would dream,
But he belonged to her, and to the moon.
He comes unto her soon, his ice-cold eyes
And warmth they seem to stir, the only prize
The moon will let her claim, in this bleak dream.