Disclaimer: _Ender's Game_ was written by Orson Scott Card; all characters and events therein are of his making. But I can write weird, creepy poems about them if I want. So there.
Required reading: _Ender's Game_
Author's Note: I like Peter. He's tortured and angsty like all the other people I write about. So this is my tortured-and-angsty-Peter poem. I knew it was coming. What can I say? I'm an angst writer, and Peter and Ender are a couple of the angstiest people I've ever read about.
This poem is based on a quote from _Ender's Game_ that puts a poetic, almost religious spin on Peter's squirrel-skinning habits: "...perhaps, for Peter, it was a kind of magic, like [Valentine's] little fires; a sacrifice that somehow stilled the dark gods that hunted for his soul."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Four stakes in the ground
mark the sacred place,
the place of the sacrifice:
the trade of flesh for flesh,
flesh for soul.
A whispered prayer, and it is begun.
The flesh trembles - it is my heart,
trembling before the abysmal dark.
It waits to be excised.
A flash of silver, a fall of red,
and the silver is turned rusty,
the wine-red is turned vivid
as it breathes the light.
But the pure and the impure
do not change,
do not cross,
for where was ever the line between them?
And the flesh writhes - it is my heart,
writhing before the blinding light.
It waits to be laid bare.
The red silver uncovers the shining red,
and agony is twined with ecstasy,
twin melodies in awesome counterpoint,
braiding together, woven together,
silver shuttle and loom of red;
and the counterpoint is unison,
but the agony and the ecstasy,
the fear and desire have not become one,
for what was ever the difference between them?
And the flesh twists - it is my heart,
tortured by the exquisite song,
naked before the dark and the light.
It waits now only to die.
The counterpoint in unison
has faded to echoes,
harmonies of sweet sorrow
and sad and bitter joy.
The soul does not cry out for the ecstasy,
but weeps as the agony subsides.
A whispered prayer, and it is ended -
the words are graven on my heart.
Ender, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know how it feels,
I'm sorry, I'm your brother, I love you.
The sacred ground is warm with red,
while the heart is cold and sharp and silver,
and the rite is no more than a cruelty,
and the flesh twitches an eternity before it is still.
My heart too is still.
It was only a squirrel.
Required reading: _Ender's Game_
Author's Note: I like Peter. He's tortured and angsty like all the other people I write about. So this is my tortured-and-angsty-Peter poem. I knew it was coming. What can I say? I'm an angst writer, and Peter and Ender are a couple of the angstiest people I've ever read about.
This poem is based on a quote from _Ender's Game_ that puts a poetic, almost religious spin on Peter's squirrel-skinning habits: "...perhaps, for Peter, it was a kind of magic, like [Valentine's] little fires; a sacrifice that somehow stilled the dark gods that hunted for his soul."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Four stakes in the ground
mark the sacred place,
the place of the sacrifice:
the trade of flesh for flesh,
flesh for soul.
A whispered prayer, and it is begun.
The flesh trembles - it is my heart,
trembling before the abysmal dark.
It waits to be excised.
A flash of silver, a fall of red,
and the silver is turned rusty,
the wine-red is turned vivid
as it breathes the light.
But the pure and the impure
do not change,
do not cross,
for where was ever the line between them?
And the flesh writhes - it is my heart,
writhing before the blinding light.
It waits to be laid bare.
The red silver uncovers the shining red,
and agony is twined with ecstasy,
twin melodies in awesome counterpoint,
braiding together, woven together,
silver shuttle and loom of red;
and the counterpoint is unison,
but the agony and the ecstasy,
the fear and desire have not become one,
for what was ever the difference between them?
And the flesh twists - it is my heart,
tortured by the exquisite song,
naked before the dark and the light.
It waits now only to die.
The counterpoint in unison
has faded to echoes,
harmonies of sweet sorrow
and sad and bitter joy.
The soul does not cry out for the ecstasy,
but weeps as the agony subsides.
A whispered prayer, and it is ended -
the words are graven on my heart.
Ender, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know how it feels,
I'm sorry, I'm your brother, I love you.
The sacred ground is warm with red,
while the heart is cold and sharp and silver,
and the rite is no more than a cruelty,
and the flesh twitches an eternity before it is still.
My heart too is still.
It was only a squirrel.