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Getting Through : Creative Writing

He sleeps lightly

from Nefarious Nosferatu and the Mystic Mefist - Friday, April 20, 2007
accessed 812 times

This is no poetry, I don't have that skill. These are random words that bled from a wound to the head, from a bullet fired from cho's gun. As he aimed his gun at me, he morphs into ricky morphs into me.

- - -

I pledged my allegiance first and foremost to my master.
The one who was there from the beginning.
The one who has born my pain. The one who shares my wounds.
The one whom will share my spine chilling end.
My shadow. My master. My being. My conciousness. My Self.

I pledged to serve and obey myself, living only to glorify him.
I pledged lifelong obeisance, strict adherence, no interference.
The master's plan was pleasure, achieved through what means he willed.
The brew the herb, the graze the haze, and debauchery untold.

Yet there remained, an unsettled score.
A disparity in the balances of justice.
The knowledge of which, like a cancer, eats at him.
A gunshot from Cho's gun threatens to wake him.

Revived tears and fears wash, hack, peel at the mascara of my vain life. My friendship with bacchus and pan. My friendships with nameless friends, with whom I enact the Kama Sutra
Now I face the mirror and see, the ugliness in me.
Myself, Sitting lightly asleep.

The hate. The pain. The anger. The wounds. The bruises.
The need for equality, vengeance, retribution.
The hunger for blood and harrowing screams, wrought by ropes and guns and knives. Fatally abusing, heartlessly threatening, these mortal evil fiends. To watch them wallow in a pool of their intestines, to play footy with their brains. The way they raped my mind and soul, I'd rape their hollow frames. Empty body. Carcass. Cadaver. Corpse.

But he sleeps. My master he sleeps. Procastinating on my behalf.
He'll allow me my rendezvous with satyr and the muses, for he knows, from the battle we'll not return. I fix my dress and paint my eyes and cheeks, hiding the entrance to the hallowed place where my master within me lies. softly snoring to himself.

I sigh a loud sign, secretly hoping he'd wake from dreams.
I think I crave the terror of my master when he's wide awake.
I'm rather tired of games, myself. I'd not mind heading to war.
But my masterself who claims to know me better, mumbles in his sleep.
The time will come.

Reader's comments on this article

Add a new comment on this article

from rainy
Tuesday, April 24, 2007 - 01:59

Woah. I get that.

But what's this about a bullet wound? Who's Cho?
(reply to this comment)
From Oddman
Tuesday, April 24, 2007, 02:49

Cho's the Virginia Tech gunman.(reply to this comment
from valhalla
Monday, April 23, 2007 - 14:38

Righteous rage!
(reply to this comment)
from Kelly
Monday, April 23, 2007 - 13:43


humm...makes me wonder.

(reply to this comment)

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