Rarity's Letter by Swords-and-Bandages, literature
Literature
Rarity's Letter
Dearest Fluttershy,
I suppose since I’m already writing letters of apology for my customers, I should also write this letter to you. I feel that you deserve an explanation and an apology from me as well, so that you can understand why I cannot give you your heart’s desire.
Even after all these years, and despite the fact that we were never able to start a family like we both wanted, my heart still belongs to Golden Fleece. Though circumstances have parted us prematurely, I still think of him every day. Some days… are harder than others, but happy or sad, I will cherish every moment I spent with him for the rest of my adm
Baila sin nombre (a Max Payne tribute) by Swords-and-Bandages, literature
Literature
Baila sin nombre (a Max Payne tribute)
It starts with a girl.
It always starts with a girl.
Somebody you gotta protect.
But you can’t.
That’s not how the dance goes.
Because someone always snatches her away from you.
Someone always does.
You dive down to the dance floor after her,
Bust some moves twenty years too young for your body,
Make a moron of yourself.
You wonder why you came here in the first place—
At the invitation of your “dearest friend”
To be a so-called protector, some “Great American Savior”—
To be a rent-a-clown for some rich idiot’s amusement.
Go home, old man.
Drink some of your favorite scotch,
Straight out o
Down a shell-strewn beach
I walk with feet bare, and take my first steps
into the waves of the Atlantic.
The water is clearer than I imagined,
clearer than my wandering mind
in the winding streets of this strange city,
a stranger growing stranger still with every familiarity I remember
from every city I ever set foot in and drank my fill,
laid my head down to rest and dream of better places.
The familiarities I see here are just reminiscences
and reminders of hours that came before,
places that exist only in my memory.
The reality of the past will drown under the weight of memories—
crimson images of sunrise remembered in glittering eye
Names etched on seawalls by Swords-and-Bandages, literature
Literature
Names etched on seawalls
Names etched on seawalls
Bells sounding mourning calls
Ringing hollow in the grey skies above
Dressed in black below the naves
Syllables echoed in the waves
Tearful soil falling into the grave
I look to find nothing within
A place in my heart where you should have been
Beating slow and living still
Your voice is missing as the earth is filled
Dying flowers accompany the dead
Asking what could have been instead
And the wind whistles on, and gives me no answer.
Forgetting you aren’t there
Daylight turns in gear
Receding with the sun as time moves on
With darkness rolling in
I come back again
And the room echoes lonely silence
I look
Summer died last night by Swords-and-Bandages, literature
Literature
Summer died last night
Summer died last night, alone.
The piercing swords of morning air
stabbed deep, deep as betrayal.
“Sic semper tyrannis!”
Farewell, oppression of heat and humidity,
days baking and nights broiling.
Then there was quiet.
What will be left by the end of winter?
To come from a place where summer is barren
and to settle where winter is lifeless,
to live two seasons in absence.
To not sow, and to not harvest.
To thirst and hunger,
to be trapped in the falling expectations
of a season of turning leaves,
when ghosts return to the earth
between two oceans and far away to both,
away from my place of belonging.
I can feel the color leaving
How my deeds pain me as time stretches long
How could I have hurt them this way?
So rest easy now, my punishment’s mine
The weight of my crimes are my own
But into that stillness you brought me your song
With your voice my company kept
For your tired eyes and sweet lullabies
In exile I pay you my debt
Once did a pony who gleamed like the moon
Look out on her kingdom and sigh
Dejected she cried, “Surely there is no pony
“Who loves me, or finds any love in my night.”
So great was her pain, she rose in rebellion
Against those who cared for her most
She let the Nightmare fall on those she ruled
And threatened to grip th
On nights when I rarely sleep
I stare out of my window
where wakeful dreams flood my landscape
twisting streets into rivers
Tranquil tides rise against cobblestone beaches
then all is quiet
when the moon leans against the water
starlight glittered lapis
My room submerges
thoughts floating away with my books and poems
I am Svidrigailov
In the water I am sleeping
Stars reflect into the Pacific
portals to remembrance
woven together in night's liquid tapestry
If I swim out I can reach each one
hear the blinked whispers of their lullabies
comforting notes forming gentle waves
rocking me in their cradle of warm music
where I close my e
What does it take for a glacier to fall?
Simple. When spring comes
piece by piece the ice recedes
cold meltwater flowing away
Dikes and dams can't hold back
deep waters,
love-in-loneliness.
The levee breaks,
sending your pent-up reservoir
crashing into once-safe harbors.
The flood splits streets into new rivers,
shreds our measured walls to pieces.
Roofs fall to the primordial chaos of whirling water,
the lives they sheltered devoured.
Panicking, you fling yourself to the only high ground you know
and when I s
Blue Rose of Illium,
entwine me with your thorns,
for the scars you leave on my skin
give more honor than battle-wounds.
Let my hands carry you
from the shadows of steel towers
into the hot sunshine,
so your petals may grow deep in color,
your leaves and stems more supple,
your roots firmly gripping the earth
where love plants you.
Blue Rose of Illium,
may I die with your name on my lips,
and fall close to where you stand
so my blood may enrich your soil,
and my bones wall you
against any who would uproot you
without knowing your true worth.
What cheerful tune rose through your head, Édouard,
as your brush and paint knives marched with military precision
up and down the rough terrain of the canvas-fields?
What hypnotic movement of dancing fingers compelled you
to cadence color with bold marshaling strokes,
setting them en route to picturesque victory?
Whatever this music was is lost to the ears,
and the young guardsman has now marched past with imperial discipline
alongside the rest of his company, out of hearing range.
The mental orchestra stops, and in its stead
the hubbub of street chitchat falls back into place.
Luckily for you, your sketchbook has managed to