Thursday, April 5, 2007

The Society that Writes and the One that Doesn't

I found this parchment on the dining room table of House Bloodwing


Of Sharing and Silence

From the smallest mouse to the mighty sky-city
From conspiracy's schemes to the warmest welcomes
From the pain of shattered loves
To the wonders of love awakened
From shameless promotion to selfless charity
From celebration to mourning
From absurdity to profundity
United in narrative

Save the one who excuses himself
But the infrequent interjection
Always a smile and eyes aglow
When the music blares and bodies writhe
But thinks his thoughts not safe for mortal eyes
Regrets raking flesh in shadowed silence
Blackblood prince by father disowned
Mother brother sister son and daughters lost
Precious diamond and dweomer discarded
Whispers of betrayal by the betrayed
Fumbling for fireflies of hope in the darkness
Only to float from his grasp
Semblance of man forgotten
Enlightenment's drawings on pale skin dimmed
Royal red robes worn on hidden throne
As amber eyes burn cold
And a sad hand scrawls to reveal
What eons sought to bury



emillyorr said...


He's a very talented poet, your father.

Send him my regards.

::turns back into the trees::

Frequency Picnic said...

It sounds to me as if the poet regrets not having a blog.

Qlippothic Projects said...

Miss Picnic,

I have heard my Father mutter things in his sleep that have chilled me to the bone, and I'm not even organic!

For the safety of all..especially those he cares about..a blog would not be wise. The thoughts of demons are indeed not meant for human eyes.

Qlippothic Projects said...

Oh it's just a matter of time before he *does* write it all down, Little Sis. I've read things he hasn't even *done* yet!

Oh and that little organic comment? What are little Prometheans made of?


(or is it Azazel? You tell *me*, Sis..)

Frequency Picnic said...

Forgive me, Miss Projects -- I take poetry less seriously than I ought, perhaps.