Desmond
Copyright 2002 All rights Reserved
 

 LETTING GO
 
 Against the black backdrop I stand.
 They are breaking through, destroying
 this which I've tried to defend.

Why pretend the End is not coming
  when I can hear the vicious words ripping
 away at the last defenses?
Breaching one wall after another
I watch, removed, as my castle falls
to their hands.  Stones rain down on the unwary;
 from the clouds, foundations fall like hail.
I've been here before.
This lost,
 this confused,
this . . . Sorrow.
 
 The Nothing is almost a comfort now,
 a familiar friend before the end whispering
 in shadow tongues not to worry, not to cry
for when the peace of dark night
claims the last of my hold,
 I will let go
and in that instant
 be reborn.
 
  Valerie Schwader
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The Exhibition
 
In the midst of the brackish crowd filled
with faceless figures stands the accused,
her sorrow reflected in her drab blue dress
and empty eyes. Her wings, now filthy gray and molted,
shout that her decay is underway and her once glimmering
scales have started to fall away.
 
Her vacuous stare is a testament; she has drawn inward,
cowering in that place where she can survive the misunderstanding
glances pelting her like jagged stones hurled
as fast as accusation and just as hard.
 
 “Give me the strength to die this day,”
she silently prays, stealing a look here and there, searching
for the one who could grace her one last time
 with a kind knowing smile,
 telling her she has done no wrong to warrant
 the inevitable outcome of this mass judgment, predefined.
 
Head down, bowed seemingly by defeat, she remains
before the eyes that scrutinize, tear at her with claws
sharper than knives.  It is the sadness, though, that burdens
her more than fear. This melancholy she emanates
 is not the kind that is resplendent with tears,
but rather is more like the bitter rain that falls
from betrayal.
 
Lost in thought, she barely notes the pain as it begins.
 
 She is now far away, watching them cut
a bite -
a stab -
a gash -
 until there is nothing left.
 
Once it is clear there is nothing left to kill, the frenzy dies and the fanatic,
frantic faces disperse and disappear into the night hot on the trail of yet
another target.
 
Alone now, her pitiful remains lay on the ground
as the earth cries crimson.  Her gown is scattered in shreds
as feathers and scales intermingle in a garish collage of death.
When all is quiet and the moon sheds its shards of sorrow,
 A figure emerges from the darkness to claim the remains.
 
This is the one who tried to stop the pain;
This is the one who tried to save the accused,
But one voice is never enough when the lust for blood
under the guise of noble motives drives the sane insane.

 He had been pushed back from the frantic chaos
and could not provide the strength to give her back
Her wings to fly away or the fin to swim to the fathomless depths
 she knew in her youth.
 
He kneels before the bloodied remains,
and cries out to the sky, yearning for his lost
love.  His tears bathe her mangled face,
and the death pallor stares back with understanding
and a warning:
 
 there is another who is betrayed -
and this will make it three:
 the dargen
 the muse,
and the artist,
she who receives the creativity.

Before the night is done all will be lost.
 
 What the masses have destroyed is larger than they know,
 larger than they care to comprehend.  In the grander scheme of matters
  one multi-faceted life sacrificed for many is always the best course of action.
 
 - Dargenhara (2002)