Post by rrw on Sept 30, 2006 18:49:43 GMT -6
Dungeons & Dragons
Deep within the festered bowels of her own, personal dungeon
the maiden hangs shackled to her dragon.
Arms crucified above her lulling head,
bleeding feet dangle in the musty darkness,
a silent whisper forms upon her blistered mouth,
the dragon of her spirit snarls.
Crippled demons-claws gleaming with violet blood,
yellow, broken fangs gnawing at puss-filled lips-
violate her half dreams, she screams
herself toward consciousness.
There she finds no comfort from her reality
just the rank smell of the misery she created,
the rotted stink of burnt nightmares
veil the void in her mind.
If I had magic, I might save her from herself,
dispel the demons with a flick of my wrist,
slay the dragon and heal her wounds.
If a painter, I might strip away the layers of varnish,
fingernail polish and grief that suffocates her,
restoring her natural child-like beauty.
Or
If I could dance, I'd sweep her gently into my arms,
waltz her up those creaking stairs of gloom
into the blue moonlight and two-step her
into this most beautiful night.
But I have none of these skills.
I'm just an ordinary guy who stopped by to smoke a cigarette
and chat awhile. All I have is a handful of meaningless words;
an abundance of " Look on the bright side," "Cheer up,"
and "Things will get better," does not contain enough magic
to resurrect the dead from the graves they dig for themselves.
* Not sure you would consider this strictly fantasy, but the images I use to describe this friend of mine and her problems seem to fit.
Deep within the festered bowels of her own, personal dungeon
the maiden hangs shackled to her dragon.
Arms crucified above her lulling head,
bleeding feet dangle in the musty darkness,
a silent whisper forms upon her blistered mouth,
the dragon of her spirit snarls.
Crippled demons-claws gleaming with violet blood,
yellow, broken fangs gnawing at puss-filled lips-
violate her half dreams, she screams
herself toward consciousness.
There she finds no comfort from her reality
just the rank smell of the misery she created,
the rotted stink of burnt nightmares
veil the void in her mind.
If I had magic, I might save her from herself,
dispel the demons with a flick of my wrist,
slay the dragon and heal her wounds.
If a painter, I might strip away the layers of varnish,
fingernail polish and grief that suffocates her,
restoring her natural child-like beauty.
Or
If I could dance, I'd sweep her gently into my arms,
waltz her up those creaking stairs of gloom
into the blue moonlight and two-step her
into this most beautiful night.
But I have none of these skills.
I'm just an ordinary guy who stopped by to smoke a cigarette
and chat awhile. All I have is a handful of meaningless words;
an abundance of " Look on the bright side," "Cheer up,"
and "Things will get better," does not contain enough magic
to resurrect the dead from the graves they dig for themselves.
* Not sure you would consider this strictly fantasy, but the images I use to describe this friend of mine and her problems seem to fit.
