Magician|Assistant
by Prismal
Raise the curtains!
Shine the lights!
The audience awaits
the dashing magician,
his gorgeous assistant.
On him,
a tuxedo and handsome bow tie!
On her,
a shimmering, form-fitting dress!
On them,
the audience, impatient looks,
desire, anticipation!
They are here to see stars,
but there are none here,
Only me.
Backstage, the frantic P.A.s
plead for me to emerge,
to meet the audience's need,
for a magician or assistant.
They bring the outfits,
The hat, the heels
and tell me to
select my role.
I tell them neither fits,
but they tell me to be
magician or assistant.
I hear the raucous mob,
howling from their seats,
demanding their
magician or assistant.
I stretch each outfit,
try squeezing them on,
try to fit into the glove of
magician or assistant.
I give a roguish grin,
I dawn a pretty smile,
but in the mirror I see no
magician or assistant.
The audience grows
restless now.
They storm the stage,
destroy the props,
demanding to see,
magician or assistant.
The P.A.'s insist,
they jostle and jolt,
conceal me in costume,
cover me with lies.
They tell me I can be
magician or assistant.
I'm on the stage now,
the mob turns to stare.
I try to shrink and hide,
as they ask me, am I
magician or assistant.
Then,
I catch my reflection
on a broken mirror shard.
Neither handsome
nor beautiful,
dapper nor alluring.
Just me.
They demand to know,
magician or assistant?
they boo,
they hiss,
while I set up my trick.
With a flick of my wrist,
and a smile on my face,
I finish my disappearing act,
and the audience is gone
while I remain.
A Queen of Monochrome Might
by SynthPanda_
Guard your heart
with weathered walls,
and darkened lights,
labyrinthine halls;
There will be only blackness,
echos, madness,
when they knock at the door,
to force you to war.
Your spires tower,
balistrarias glower,
let them call and call out,
as the moon ticks down the hours.
The drawbridge mustn't fall,
no matter how they weep,
their sympathy's an act,
the wolves to your sheep.
Born in a prison of rebar,
white walls and hours spent,
your parents were your jailers,
out of fear of your assent,
of a will without relent,
of an apocalypse event,
and when you slipped through prison bars,
they tracked you by your scent,
and when the baying hounds grew dim,
you promised trust in others were spent.
Alas, there was a mage,
who's warm flames tempted your door,
you brought them into your world,
closer than any before,
but then their feats began to eclipse
your works, yourself, your call,
you looked for light in crystal eyes,
and apart you two did fall.
Their final shot into your heart,
their sacking of your walls,
they joined your father's roving band,
became his army's trawl.
Guard your heart
with weathered walls,
and darkened lights,
labyrinthine halls;
Become the queen of monochrome might,
protect yourself from tempting blight,
let no one else in inner worlds,
for no matter how kind,
they wait for your fall.
Reverie
by SynthPanda_
I lived in a prison of walls of wood and stone,
yours is surrounded by the grave of sailors.
I regret that I could not be there for you in life,
my child, Meri of the music box.
I am sorry that I brought you to a world of shadows.
When your time comes, as it has for me and us before,
I'll await you beyond your prison walls,
To embrace you for the first time, forever.
Sharp Teeth and Hurried Hooves
by AstersQuill
You are the consequence of generations
of the sins of man. Your nature
betrays you, child of Lilith; your,
progenitor, her vengeance, lives on
in you. You are as she was—
untamed, more creature than person;
you're nothing more than an infernal offspring
of the mother of monsters.
How do you believe you can be anything else?
I am a child of the earth,
born from the bones of the mother I have
met only in dreams, and in the image
of a distant father, whose words do little to
fill the aching silence. I know only in memories
the warmth of a hug, and the calloused
topography of a hand
never quite ready to let go.
I know only in the leaves the sussurating aria
of the one to whom I bear resemblance.
Forgotten is her melody; wrapped in crimson
who is left to sing for her?
The hands of the father are stained
in blood, but they are not so
dissimilar to the ones that are meant
to care for you.
My body is nothing more than the
storybook reinterpretations of ancestors past,
or burdened by the perceptions of those
perceiving me. Their eyes trace the
muddled mixture that always labels me either
'monster' or 'man'; their hands treat me as the latter.
There is little of me left untouched by
gloved hands. Sedated, despite protestation,
they prod and grab and grope, taking vial and measurement,
jabbing me with the medicine I so desperately wish to
be the cure. Only wildfire patches of hives and
the phantom sensation of touch remains.
And what of eyes?
You are an oddity, black sheep by birth;
your flock is elsewhere, child, and
still you remain. What fulfillment is there in a
life like yours?
To be seen is to be realized, acknowledged;
I wish so dearly for no one to acknowledge me.
Eyes are inescapable, windows to the thoughts
and minds of their owners.
A deer's eyes are nervous,
peering through grass and trees for the hungry wolf.
To be seen is to be hunted.
The wolf's eyes are focused, vigilantly glaring at its prey.
I know intimately what it means to be hunted.
A Shadow grows eyes within the cattails and reeds,
beckoning me like a siren to the water so I may perceive myself.
Elsewhere, I feel the analytical eyes that separate me into my
component parts, pieced together and deconstructed, or
the well-meaning glances of those just like me
that are always just out of reach.
Their gazes feel as though thorns are being driven into me,
waiting for me to falter before delivering the killing blow.
But you cannot die.
You lack ephemerality; you are a
universal constant, a spoke supporting a shattered
wheel that has broken lovers and martyrs
much stronger than you.
I am weak, skin over tattered bones,
ribs visible, buttressing the chest where
my heart beats and beats and beats;
sometimes the only reminder I am still alive.
I am the living embodiment of life and death,
a timeless thing, standing like a willow in a storm.
My hands bring both bloom and decay,
though I am at once both and neither.
Fear runs through me as blood does, and
pulsing adrenaline feels diminished in its returns;
amplified brings about numbness, numbness fades into nothingness.
I am not strong, but I am
generations of hopes and dreams, the slow
erosion of the river bank, rushing rapids
that threaten to drag me under so that one day,
someone, may break the cycle.
I hope to sit by the oxbow then, maybe with a book,
or with someone I love, and watch life begin anew.
Photos and Flowers
by SynthPanda_
On a cork-board in my mind are pinned photos,
memories
in a vinyl sheen,
which dance and change as your warm hand inches closer,
entangling,
with my fingers.
The shapes flicker, but do not change,
the meaning moves to the drum of your heartbeat
on my chest.
I remember walking with you on an evening in
August.
In the humid air,
we forgot the tragedy of our births, if only for that
moment.
You pulled a flower
from the earth, and smelling it, said its fragrant beauty
was much like mine, you smiled like a woman gone wild,
an idiot in love.
I laugh, my chest heaved, I picked you up, and stared into
eyes,
brown and vibrant,
full of unrepentant love for me, creases from smiling,
beautiful,
as all of you is.
I love you, even though you do not believe you are pretty.
Even then, I wanted nothing more than to have you here,
asleep in my arms.
You breath softly as you sleep, I run my hands through your
hair,
holding you,
you are safe. I am you knight, I will shield you from the
nightmares
awaiting us both,
once this moment is over, and the spell is broken. For now,
my love, sleep sound, sleep well. Dream of photos and flowers,
of me and you.