O castitatis lilium.

For good and bad, I didn’t need this place to vent in anymore, but this week has been a nostalgia trip in many ways. Betrayal, distrust, distance, cold, spite, desperation, melancholy. It’s been a long time since I let this get to me; that someone I love has pushed me away, but this time the reason is new. Distance and fear can reject everything, even the most raging of fires, at least for a time. Unfortunately it awakes the old me. The one who used to walk the streets with his head bowed low, deep in pained contemplation because he can think of nothing else but his denied chance to love. The grey-eyed hermit, whose friend is the indifferent killer. The duskbringer.

I’m not going to let him take over again. I’m going to let the fire inside me burn what’s left of him, even if he’ll always be there. I’ve come so far, and I’m not going to give up on what keeps me burning either, no matter how much anything tries to put me out.

It’s been very long since I thought of poetry or stories. Poets need pain, they say. Grey-eyes has that, at least. Maybe I can actually befriend him one day, if he can let go of duskbringer. For now, he speaks.

Lily of the Sword

in the sun she bathes
clad in silken purple, responding to every breeze
the purest of lilies learnt to bend like the reed
catch the hardest winds so as not to break

but when the sun would fade
she changed in colour from bright to dead
the purest of lilies, her stalk was no longer strong
crooked, she despaired, hoped for the sun to return

years passed, and the lily gave up
she adjusted to her cave
dark and dank, she became a vine
sinewy and tough, her poison protection from vermin

the sun would peek at the lily at times
see if she was still there, for he would always return
but the lily had forgotten the joy it once had
and to seek it again seemed too hard

she was accustomed to being a vine
the struggle became her life
if you let it, pain will become familiar and safe
more love will you need to return to grace

but the sun is always there
awaiting the lily’s return
it is simple like love, you see
fluctuates like the breeze and the bend of the reed

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