Namoric
March 16th, 2009, 05:50 PM
A Poet I Am Not
By Yarp
What I am doing, I do not know
Where I am going, I should not go
My tortured soul leads me though
My conflicted heart resists the flow
The darkness offers and beckons and smiles
I have not been on this road for miles and miles
The shadows are familiar and I found solace there
Once upon a story, in times not fair.
Cursed though I be, bright is the light
Brothers and sisters, though they know not my fight
A chain of souls with one weak link
These ties should make me stop and think.
Do I betray the light with my walk in the dark?
Do the clouds rage with my brush with the spark?
I seek only peace, an end to the strife
I seek only release from my prison of everlife.
Yarp set down his quill and quietly cursed his lack of talent as a tear spilled onto his page. "Appropriate enough." he thought, as he reached for his blotting sand with a sigh. Tonight he was to meet with the ones who promised him his release. Though he was trying not to think about it, he found his hope growing. In the back of his heart, he was prepared for disappointment again, but even though he knew how seductive and dangerous his growing hope was, he could not help himself.
He picked up a silver mirror, one of his oldest possessions. How many times had he looked at his reflection? A thousand? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? He saw the face of a young man staring back at him, young everywhere except for the eyes. He had heard it said that the eyes were a window into the soul. Where had that been? A young, pretty barmaid with her breasts spilling out of her blouse, serving him in some backwoods tavern had said that. She had been trying to impress her worldliness upon him, no doubt. Yarp had old, hollow, blank eyes that gave nothing away. To look into his eyes was to reach, screaming, into a bottomless well, with the echoes of the cries of a small child who has just slipped out of your hands ringing in your ears... Many a woman had looked deep into his eyes on the morn after some shallow passion, only to have an inexplicable fear come over her as she scrambled, half-dressed, out of his room.
What did the Order of the Ebon Skull know that he did not? He could not have missed an opportunity to lift his curse...not in the millennia that he had spent trying. Could he? He had scoured the world for old and rare artifacts that held a glimmer of hope. He had pursued the counsel of the wisest of wise men. He had pursued magic to it's practical ends...ah, the days that he had spent as an archmage, commanding fear, admiration and respect had been among his best...
Yarp found himself smiling, and caught a glance of his incisors, newly appeared in his jaw. He remembered when they had originally sprouted, appearing quickly when he sired for the first time, only to disappear when the last of his clan had expired. Why did they come back now, bringing the hated bloodlust along for the ride?
He stood up suddenly, knocking his table and all it's contents over with a crash. His jaw dropped wide open as he came slowly to terms with the only possibility that could explain this.
Yarp stood silently trembling, staring at the cracked mirror on the floor, his face a thousand times reflected, a thousand times mocked in the shards.
By Yarp
What I am doing, I do not know
Where I am going, I should not go
My tortured soul leads me though
My conflicted heart resists the flow
The darkness offers and beckons and smiles
I have not been on this road for miles and miles
The shadows are familiar and I found solace there
Once upon a story, in times not fair.
Cursed though I be, bright is the light
Brothers and sisters, though they know not my fight
A chain of souls with one weak link
These ties should make me stop and think.
Do I betray the light with my walk in the dark?
Do the clouds rage with my brush with the spark?
I seek only peace, an end to the strife
I seek only release from my prison of everlife.
Yarp set down his quill and quietly cursed his lack of talent as a tear spilled onto his page. "Appropriate enough." he thought, as he reached for his blotting sand with a sigh. Tonight he was to meet with the ones who promised him his release. Though he was trying not to think about it, he found his hope growing. In the back of his heart, he was prepared for disappointment again, but even though he knew how seductive and dangerous his growing hope was, he could not help himself.
He picked up a silver mirror, one of his oldest possessions. How many times had he looked at his reflection? A thousand? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? He saw the face of a young man staring back at him, young everywhere except for the eyes. He had heard it said that the eyes were a window into the soul. Where had that been? A young, pretty barmaid with her breasts spilling out of her blouse, serving him in some backwoods tavern had said that. She had been trying to impress her worldliness upon him, no doubt. Yarp had old, hollow, blank eyes that gave nothing away. To look into his eyes was to reach, screaming, into a bottomless well, with the echoes of the cries of a small child who has just slipped out of your hands ringing in your ears... Many a woman had looked deep into his eyes on the morn after some shallow passion, only to have an inexplicable fear come over her as she scrambled, half-dressed, out of his room.
What did the Order of the Ebon Skull know that he did not? He could not have missed an opportunity to lift his curse...not in the millennia that he had spent trying. Could he? He had scoured the world for old and rare artifacts that held a glimmer of hope. He had pursued the counsel of the wisest of wise men. He had pursued magic to it's practical ends...ah, the days that he had spent as an archmage, commanding fear, admiration and respect had been among his best...
Yarp found himself smiling, and caught a glance of his incisors, newly appeared in his jaw. He remembered when they had originally sprouted, appearing quickly when he sired for the first time, only to disappear when the last of his clan had expired. Why did they come back now, bringing the hated bloodlust along for the ride?
He stood up suddenly, knocking his table and all it's contents over with a crash. His jaw dropped wide open as he came slowly to terms with the only possibility that could explain this.
Yarp stood silently trembling, staring at the cracked mirror on the floor, his face a thousand times reflected, a thousand times mocked in the shards.