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3744new poem : the last word --- by darkstar (1/1)

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  • clone347@aol.com
    Oct 24, 2001
      Title : scenes from the longest winter
      Author : darkstar
      Email : clone347@...
      Codes : R/L (what else?), poetry, a wee bit of angst
      Distribution : i would be honored, only please let me know :)
      Rating : G
      Disclaimer : I don't do it for the money. I do it for the love, baby. That and
                       the Logan clones....
      Author's notes : I was watching the L/R music video "Eyes on Me" and got all
                             emotional and choked up about the goodbye scene. So I
                             it to the Muse and told her to play. She did.

      summary : Sometimes the truth seems simple. And sometimes simple can be

      - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
      the last word

      logan point of view
      - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

      Let us say it would be fair barter
      to exchange scattered fragments of a past
      for illusions of a future.
      (vapor, not concrete, a good deal of smoke and mirrors
      with glimmers of seductive color: such as sepia, which is her
      A promise would be required, some token to
      reassure her-- and, I confess, myself-- of my intent.
      What formulas could be used? What incantations,
      a sort of ritualistic precaution against
      falling too far in love
      or not falling far enough?

      I could say: I will protect her with my voice.
          An intriguing concept,
          original enough to be effective,
          if you pause to consider the subtle weapons
          contained within vowels and consonant,
          lurking behind the inflection of the tone.
          When we were alone, I would whisper the exploration
          of the varied meanings to "love", "trust", "touch".
          And to others, I would use a different dialect,
          harsher along the palate, a firm establishment of
          terms that will apply to them
          in the event that she is harmed
      But let me be frank, choose bald words--
      my voice could not protect her the first time.
      (What do you want with me?) I said to the madmen.
      Implying that I was the one to be wanted.
      And she the one to be left alone.
      Implications failed to impress.
      He silenced my voice and broke my spell
      around her innocence.

      I could say: I will protect her with my hands.
          Skin stretched over bone and metal blades,
          weapons have been made of less,
          shields and swords and battle axes of all sorts,
          so I could use my hands to fight for her.
          It is known that I can wield them with some skill.
          When she felt the night too sharply, I would hold her,
          hands over hers, arms locked through arms.
          And to others, I would present a different sort of touch,
          bruising flesh or chipping bone should they attempt
          to pry her from my fingers
          or wrench her from my grip.

      But let me choose honesty over honor--
      My hands impaled her on these very same blades.
      An invasion of flesh just as painful as the invasion
      of my thoughts pouring into her mind.
      Consensual rape-- but I do not know
      who was meant to be the victim.
      I, who pushed the metal through her chest, or
      she who burned through skin.

      I could say: I will protect her with my blood.
          Consider it like wine, it has fermented
          long enough within my veins,
          and could easily be spilled in her defense, a heroism
          in its own way if you quate the merit of a savior
          with the number of nails in his wrists.
          When the life dipped low within her, I would infuse
          mine to compsenate for the loss.
          And to others, I would present a definitive proof
          that I will die before I allow her to be spilled out
          as water wasted on the ground,
          as incense wasted on a whore.

      But let me be the realist instead of the crusader--
      My blood is cheap, a thing of quantity but not value.
      I have spent it too freely; flooded the market and
      too quickly replaced the surplus.
      For all intents and purposes, I am immortal,
      and have died more times than I can count,
      So it will seems a small thing to divert to her a portion
      of my stock in death and resurrection.

      Let us say that I love her, that it is real and not
      a momentary burning of the skin.
      Let us say that these have not been mere words--
      If indeed I would devote voice, hands, blood
      to her service,
      then there is only one word
      (in light of the overwhelming truth
      of all she is and all I am not)
      one last word I may speak to protect her--



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