Cry of the Pegasus
Posted: Thu Jul 18, 2002 11:07 pm
A little poem.
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing.
I am tempered by emptiness and apathy... I am an animal, a stallion that gallops on the plane of bloodshed,
Tasting the bitter tears which the souls of my conquest have wept for my ruthlessness. For my carnage.
Rank with the scent of rotting flesh and spoiled meat from each and every massacre,
I retch my thoughts at the blood that tarnishes my sepulcher of the dead.
Soon I wake again to a morning of ghostly chants and faces,
Perhaps not willing, but obligated by fate and its song of perish, to endure life for her but not by my own impulses-- Nothing but lust and beauty and confusion.
She is a golden-haired maiden, a virgin sacrificed to the jaws of war and peace... a dove whose feathers caress impurity with each mild touch of her wings,
They whisper a sweet speech to which morbidity bows and pain prostrates.
Newborn roses and carnations surround her; dew sparkles from their petals. Like humility glistens in her eyes and her perfume emanates from her warm and supple skin.
Her hopes are childish and fantastic-- Unattainable.
But in her eyes and held in her embrace, I fall for those hopes and somehow find myself believing in her.
Her suppressed tears fall on my flesh, sparking lust. Her heart moans in our star-crossed damnation.
Our union is inevitable, our spirits intertwined, and within this mated paradox is a myth,
A deformed creature whose beauty perhaps shadows the ignominy,
But whose specter bleeds the tale of a dance, cordial, passionate, and long ago,
Staining this love in a torrent of profanity.
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing.
I am tempered by emptiness and apathy... I am an animal, a stallion that gallops on the plane of bloodshed,
Tasting the bitter tears which the souls of my conquest have wept for my ruthlessness. For my carnage.
Rank with the scent of rotting flesh and spoiled meat from each and every massacre,
I retch my thoughts at the blood that tarnishes my sepulcher of the dead.
Soon I wake again to a morning of ghostly chants and faces,
Perhaps not willing, but obligated by fate and its song of perish, to endure life for her but not by my own impulses-- Nothing but lust and beauty and confusion.
She is a golden-haired maiden, a virgin sacrificed to the jaws of war and peace... a dove whose feathers caress impurity with each mild touch of her wings,
They whisper a sweet speech to which morbidity bows and pain prostrates.
Newborn roses and carnations surround her; dew sparkles from their petals. Like humility glistens in her eyes and her perfume emanates from her warm and supple skin.
Her hopes are childish and fantastic-- Unattainable.
But in her eyes and held in her embrace, I fall for those hopes and somehow find myself believing in her.
Her suppressed tears fall on my flesh, sparking lust. Her heart moans in our star-crossed damnation.
Our union is inevitable, our spirits intertwined, and within this mated paradox is a myth,
A deformed creature whose beauty perhaps shadows the ignominy,
But whose specter bleeds the tale of a dance, cordial, passionate, and long ago,
Staining this love in a torrent of profanity.
Beautiful. 