lumen
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Golconda (No, I was not born this way).
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Jul 18 03:35 UTC 2000 |
I digged and snooped
and Leningrad fell to my compatriots.
I was one of the best.
No mole could ferret me out,
but a Sewer Rat did.
While walking down the streets one night,
I smelt a horrible smell
and felt the flesh on my neck pierced.
One of the enemy had given me life that is not life
turning my efforts in a better direction.
One horrible price was traded for another,
and everything I knew changed.
I was saved but would still not know peace.
The beauty of the master race in my countenance
melted away to mottled muscle and bone
and the memory of what I had done seared into my conscience
whenever I looked into a mirror.
I survived but my Sire did not.
Many years later, my phone rang.
It was him, with but one name on his lips,
"Baba Yaga."
I risked life and limb to rush to his side
only to find him drained and half-eaten
along with the corpses of the rest of the warren,
blood strewn all over the sewer walls.
The name must have been his dying words.
I fled with American troops from the battle scene
and resided in Chicago for a time.
I left but can't remember why.
I moved again, but feared again--
because I could not escape the circumstances.
Blood split again. Alone again.
Used as a pawn to slaughter innocents.
Nothing had changed.
So I began to seek the Enlightened Path
and began to confront the Beast within.
Many Kindred say it is an impossibility--
that the Beast is part of our nature
and must not be fought.
But I couldn't go on unliving like that.
I was told that I must be calm.
Avoid grievious acts of passion.
That I should avoid killing.
I was so impatient, and sometimes I still am.
I began to bloodfast despite my dietary need for blood.
Began to drink from animals rather than Seth's children
and the Beast began to claw at my soul.
How I ache for that peace.. more than sustenance sometimes.
I stare at a bottle of chaos The Mime gave me, from time to time.
She seems to understand, ironically,
although her clan
is cursed with insanity.
She likens it to the Beast
and used it as a model of how some deal with it.
It shall hold sentiment for me
as well as therapy.
I stare, and wonder why some refuse to hold their bottles still.
An impossibility, they say.
The Beast is impossible to tame.
Reminds me of the struggle of a mortal I know.
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lumen
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response 1 of 2:
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Jul 27 06:18 UTC 2000 |
Was this too prosy for your tastes? I haven't written any poetry in a
long time, so I am a little sad that there are no comments. I wrote
this rather spontaneously and wasn't going for the Wordsmith of the
Year poem; it was tough enough to write without worrying about crafting
a piece that everyone would like.
I suppose it's all in the perspective; you noticed I applauded one of
Josh's recent poems while disagreeing with Dan's criticism (and he
consistently writes pieces that the majority here enjoy).
Back to the drawing board, I suppose..
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