Post by Eurydice on Feb 24, 2009 19:59:06 GMT -5
((A poem for everyone's favorite albino. I'm not entirely sure whether I like how well I stuck with the format I made up, but it's probably going to need to be something I let sit for a while and come back to when I have a fresh perspective.))
"Betrayer," she is called, as if that were a bad thing;
When one's life, desperate and clinging to existence,
humming the tune of revenge and regret and longing,
resolved to go on in spite of it all
constitutes betrayal,
Cruel Mother Fortune makes betrayers of us all.
The tall, white, gangly girl, she was seen to be;
Everything about her is made of lines and angles,
like some absurd mathematical figure,
a formula of crushing importance,
full of grace,
She always moved like a ghost, and now she is such a one.
"Flirt" and "trouble-maker," she has been labeled;
(largely by those with whom she does not flirt
and those for whom she has made trouble)
But for those who called her friend or lover,
the lack
of flirtation and trouble-making leave the world a mite darker.
Without words, some remember her, but with images or sounds,
remembering snide quips, sly tongue, quicksilver temper,
remembering the tempest of white skin and twin blades,
pale and stark against whatever she donned as her
colors—
The purest beauties rarely make the most memorable faces.
Better off dead, mutter some as they pass by her temples.
Well, maybe so, but they cannot know, she knows;
the sacrifice, the anger, the pain,
living long enough to achieve her vendetta, and her purpose,
as one
They do not know; but she knows they cannot know.
"Mauri," a handful remember her to be,
when they raise a glass to memories of her,
or stories of her, or stories she told.
"Betrayer," she is called, but cruel Mother Fortune makes betrayers
of us all.
"Betrayer," she is called, as if that were a bad thing;
When one's life, desperate and clinging to existence,
humming the tune of revenge and regret and longing,
resolved to go on in spite of it all
constitutes betrayal,
Cruel Mother Fortune makes betrayers of us all.
The tall, white, gangly girl, she was seen to be;
Everything about her is made of lines and angles,
like some absurd mathematical figure,
a formula of crushing importance,
full of grace,
She always moved like a ghost, and now she is such a one.
"Flirt" and "trouble-maker," she has been labeled;
(largely by those with whom she does not flirt
and those for whom she has made trouble)
But for those who called her friend or lover,
the lack
of flirtation and trouble-making leave the world a mite darker.
Without words, some remember her, but with images or sounds,
remembering snide quips, sly tongue, quicksilver temper,
remembering the tempest of white skin and twin blades,
pale and stark against whatever she donned as her
colors—
The purest beauties rarely make the most memorable faces.
Better off dead, mutter some as they pass by her temples.
Well, maybe so, but they cannot know, she knows;
the sacrifice, the anger, the pain,
living long enough to achieve her vendetta, and her purpose,
as one
They do not know; but she knows they cannot know.
"Mauri," a handful remember her to be,
when they raise a glass to memories of her,
or stories of her, or stories she told.
"Betrayer," she is called, but cruel Mother Fortune makes betrayers
of us all.