Chilling Nightmare
A collection of 6918, 1869 tragedy poems of different forms.
Kyoya Prefect, Cloud,
Aggressive, Firm, Careless,
Destructive, Cruel, Vengeful, Offensive,
Majestic, Cycling, Powerful,
Illusionist, Mist,
Mukuro
Cold, dark, winter night,
Cloud moves into the old school,
Heart barely beating,
And he stops at the other,
Closes his eyes, and he's gone.
The bird flew far into the worn down school,
His dark, black hair was beautiful and smooth,
His form stood straight, and right, yet curved in stride.
And as he walked, he slid into a groove.
Alas, the grace was all for nought, for he,
Rival, the man who once destroyed the bird,
The man who dared to cross the precious line.
The man who broke the prefect's heart, who purred,
"Skylark, you are a sad, sad soul. If once,
A man was so foolish, he would be dead."
And there, the bird, so brave, so dumb, so sad.
It never saw the weapon come, he read.
And so, the man who broke the bird had won,
His trident bore into the bird's black heart.
But when, at last, he came to see his prize,
At once he felt pity for the skylark.
When a heart beats harder, how does it feel?
When it races and drums, it's bound to steal,
Blood from the body, set it in the face.
What is it called, can it even be placed?
When sweat adorns the resting body, ah!
And delicate, sweet warmth from spine to jaw?
A prefect who never knew emotion...
An illusionist who wants the notion...
But of course, it was love! They didn't know.
They believed it was hate, they thought it so!
The poor souls fought, to never see the truth,
Not even death could create any soothe.
Their bodies lied cold and dead on the ground,
Lying asleep, never safe, and not sound.
On a hospital bed, the poor Cloud lied,
If not sooner, he may have died.
Course, It was his fault that the prefect cried.
His fault that Cloud was unallied.
Kyoya lied there, his face fixed in a scowl,
When through the window came an owl.
The prefect whimpered as he tried to growl,
The Mist just grabbed him, made him howl.
The pain and embarassment hurt his pride,
Of course, the Mist wanted to guide,
The prefect's hand to his own, soft, pale hide.
His lips quirked up and awful snide.
Mukuro's chuckle was deep, long, and cruel,
The Cloud knew he would be a fool,
To ever determine they could be cool.
But even so, he was white as a ghoul.
Just touching the other made his heart wild,
Made him excited as a child.
The short moment would not for long stay mild.
And not long before Mist was riled.
Chaotic hell appeared really quite fast.
Peace between the two would not last.
Their hatred, after all, was much too vast.
And the calm of them had passed.
With a flash, trident pierced his broken arm,
Bringing the prefect still more harm.
He'd been tricked again by the devil's charm.
Leading him to burning alarm.
"Knock it off," he snarled, his steel eyes ablaze.
For his rage, the bird recieved praise.
His poor, twisted mind broke into a craze.
His head had turned into a maze.
It wasn't long before the fun was had,
Mukuro was already glad.
He left the other man scantily clad,
Abandoned him, leaving him mad.
-Owari
I love poetry, 6918/1869, and tragedy. Kufufu~ Solution lies here!
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