I WISH: I wish for people to enjoy this poem. I worked hard on it and it still kind of makes me proud. ^_^
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Lanterns burn over a path of snow,
all that is left of the light.
Shadows writhe dark in the red-orange glow,
paper-shaded flames, losing the fight.
The sun has long melted behind a row
of winter-bare cherry trees, branches white.
Dark moon, only stars risen hours ago,
Vega among them burning bright.
She needs to find him; needs to know,
and has come out searching on this night.
A thousand footprints in his wake,
too protean, his path concealed.
A thousand hems of cotton make
broad strokes across the field.
Remnants of the day remain
now lifeless, silent, hollow:
a kite, a pinwheel, a paper crane,
but nothing of him to follow.
A lonely bridge across the lane:
a place for abandoned lovers to wallow.
A cat howls from Inari's shrine,
almost a cry of mourning.
And lovers who laughed and danced and dined
have shut themselves in till the morning.
She would herself be so inclined
if not for the taste of warning.
She walks past the lanterns and finds one down,
a fallen sentinel in a row of light-guards,
fire-singed on its way to the ground,
torn edges still smoking, black and charred.
It hasn't been long since it came unwound
(was pulled by someone running through the yard,)
and it smolders dark, its fires drowned.
But it's that dark patch of red that catches her regard.
And now she can hear them crying with need,
the winged ones from beyond the veil.
Soon they will fly, and they will want to feed,
so she follows the still-wet trail:
drop after drop like red pomegranate seeds.
She knows the signs; she knows this tale.
To warn him to hide from the dark and their greed:
She will not falter. She will not fail.
A light shape under a tree appears,
the curve of it catches her eye:
crushed and torn and shadow-smeared,
his elegant paper fan lies -
her own brush strokes on it, perfectly clear:
"Meet me when Vega takes the sky."
A handful of hope, a handful of fear.
This is their meeting. This is goodbye.
And there he lies, in snow enshrined,
the mark of a struggle, chaotic,
dark hair splayed, eyes staring blind,
in the light almost strangely hypnotic.
A white sash around his throat is twined,
sprawling limbs somehow exotic.
A kind of beauty redefined,
in death, peculiar, erotic.
In his eyes, is his killer reflected?
His last vision caught in his stare?
In his blindness she sees them reconnected.
The longer she looks, the more she is aware -
the discovery shocks her, unexpected:
It's her own reflection that holds her there.
Now Vega tilts away in a Western direction
under the ink dark moon.
Their burgeoning evening resurrection -
they'll be upon her too, soon.
She toys with his hair in regretful affection
and hums a mournful tune.
How could he know, when it escapes her recollection
in the sweet bright light of noon?
Her sisters close in and she feels their connection
as their sweet, dark, dripping mouths croon.
She pulls the knots and loosens the ties,
unwinding her sash from his throat.
It was nothing but cruelty to strangle his cries.
She covers him with her bloody coat.
Before they converge, the winged ones, her allies,
she kisses the fan on which she wrote
closes his dark staring eyes.
And away on their song she'll float.
Their voices sing that she's their own,
that they are hers, (and they are,)
and into the night on black wings she is flown,
towards the Vega star.