~Tsuki
P.S. Some are posted as images because they are highly visual, and RPG cannot accommodate the format.
~*~
The Crow
Its beauty does not lie in its song, nor
does it lie in its sleek black sheen,
not in its amber eyes, nor
in the swooping arc of its flight, making
all its physical attributes rather
unappealing to even the most
keen and enthusiastic watchers.
No, the beauty of the crow
does not lie in its appearance, but in its
existence.
It is beautiful because it is alive.
~*~
A Duality of Truth
How lovely my dreams art, I must confess;
Ev`ry night I find that they have all gone.
Without their limits to bind and repress,
Truth was apparent to the breaking dawn.
Try as I may though, these dreams were not true;
Forcing upon me to renteth apart
Thine heart which although I do love of you
Doth tend to tamper in our impart.
As fickle foxfire, here, as soon, there;
It fadeth from view the moment you grasp.
As taxing traipses, with struggle aware,
Though within reason; yet they song doth rasp.
So ev`ry night do I aspire to find
Way for to break through this permanent bind.
~*~
Elysium
The nightingale sings,
a soft song, spoken
in the voice of a warbling sparrow, gentle
like the cooing of a white dove, shadowed
by the covered moon like
an eagle hovering silently above its prey, shadowed
by nothing, for it fears
nothing, for it knows nothing
to fear.
A song so beautiful, it could
make your ears cry tears
of blood, of
joy for life
like a newborn, clinging to
its mothers breast, as its last
like of support, of familiarity
with the warmth of the womb.
It makes the lovers jealous for
the knowledge of Elysium, bickering
in competition for its sweet embrace.
It makes them cry Elysium, for
a lack of any other word to cry.
~*~
Birth
I know I have to kill.
I know I need to kill.
I need to know I can kill.
I have to know to kill.
I have to need to kill.
I know that if I do not kill, then I will be killed.
I know I need to kill;
but I need to kill this need to kill which I know I must kill so I am not killed.
But if I kill, I will be killing myself.
So I must not kill.
For the killing starts a vicious circle.
The killing starts, and never ends.
The killing ends, but never starts.
If the killing starts, nothing else will ever start again;
The ceaseless killing will consume and end all beginnings.
It will never end.
The killing is wrong.
I know the killing is wrong;
but how would anything ever end if nothing ever began?
~*~
The rain falls upon me,
Feeling cold against my porcelain skin.
It is numbing;
a funny thing for a doll to feel, really.
What else would I feel?
I feel cold . . .
I feel numb . . .
I have fallen to the ground,
And now pieces of my heat have been scattered.
Broken . . .
With no one to love and repair me
and tend to these broken parts,
I will eventually cease.
Cease to feel so numb and cold,
yes, but cease to feel anything else ever.
What shall I do?
Until I know for sure,
I’ll just lay here in this alley,
under the cover of this cardboard box.
After all, it’s been my home for a while now.
~*~
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