NOTES:
Clearly, this is a poem about Muraki. But this is YOUNG Muraki, the age he appears in the flashbacks in the Kyoto arc.
What I know about Muraki's mother, I gathered from fanfic, so spare me. If I have anything wrong, do forgive me.
I think Muraki is a psychopath and I think it's quite likely that he was born with his mind askew.
If his mother was insane, as I am led to believe she was, laws of heredity would play into it.
However, certain events in his life definitely aggravated the frail balance of his mind,
and I guess that's what this poem's about.
Not to mention that I like the symbolism of dolls, those creepy things. ^^
I should probably warn that the poem may be disturbing.
Please enjoy, and send me comments at bonking_bishies @ swirve.com
Poem by Meiran Chang.
---
[KAZUTAKA]
A slow tender plucking of delicate crystal strings.
He watches as a tattered ballerina unfolds, gathers her
battered costume, and tries again to twirl.
He has cut his finger.
"Kazutaka, the loveliest doll in my collection."
He remembers staring at her mad silver eyes,
wondering if she was a reflection,
and wanting to kill her,
for no reason at all.
He brings his wounded finger to his lips.
"Dance," he whispers. The ballerina struggles.
Veronica watches with sweet blue eyes.
She is electric with insanity,
her voice crackles,
her hands as they reach for him spark.
"My beautiful Kazutaka."
Red blood, gray sky.
Black cloth of mourning.
Red ribbons.
Saki's smile.
Saki, what have you done?
Wind, low mourning in red, red ribbons.
The ballerina falters, but he understands.
Her diaphanous wings are too frayed for flight.
Still sucking gently on his cut,
he lays his other hand,
frail and pale as bone,
on the music box's cover.
The crystalline chimes come to an abrubt halt
as the gold-and-porcelain box is shut.
He goes to Veronica,
resplendent on the bureau-throne
in frills and silk.
"I don't need her anymore."
A discordant smile,
a glimpse of twitching circuitry and Veronica
is pushed into his arms.
"You are my most beautiful doll."
"Veronica," he says, smiling shyly,
"I bought you a new dress."
He shows her.
"Do you like it?"
She beholds him with eagerness.
Her frigid hands, clammy with sweat, reach up to cup his face.
"Loveliest of all."
Her thumb jerks across the high ridge of his cheekbone.
He lifts Veronica into his arms --
such a gentle motion --
and sits her in his lap,
holding her dress,
red ribbons, gray lace,
black mourning trim,
on the side of the bed.
Saki's smile.
Mother's madness.
Tired ballerina and her weeping music,
and poor, innocent
Veronica.
"Let me help you."
Veronica smiles at him in thanks.
He touches her soft gold hair.
"I knew you'd like it,"
he says softly into her perfect ear,
"I got it just for you."
"My beautiful doll."
Clearly, this is a poem about Muraki. But this is YOUNG Muraki, the age he appears in the flashbacks in the Kyoto arc.
What I know about Muraki's mother, I gathered from fanfic, so spare me. If I have anything wrong, do forgive me.
I think Muraki is a psychopath and I think it's quite likely that he was born with his mind askew.
If his mother was insane, as I am led to believe she was, laws of heredity would play into it.
However, certain events in his life definitely aggravated the frail balance of his mind,
and I guess that's what this poem's about.
Not to mention that I like the symbolism of dolls, those creepy things. ^^
I should probably warn that the poem may be disturbing.
Please enjoy, and send me comments at bonking_bishies @ swirve.com
Poem by Meiran Chang.
---
[KAZUTAKA]
A slow tender plucking of delicate crystal strings.
He watches as a tattered ballerina unfolds, gathers her
battered costume, and tries again to twirl.
He has cut his finger.
"Kazutaka, the loveliest doll in my collection."
He remembers staring at her mad silver eyes,
wondering if she was a reflection,
and wanting to kill her,
for no reason at all.
He brings his wounded finger to his lips.
"Dance," he whispers. The ballerina struggles.
Veronica watches with sweet blue eyes.
She is electric with insanity,
her voice crackles,
her hands as they reach for him spark.
"My beautiful Kazutaka."
Red blood, gray sky.
Black cloth of mourning.
Red ribbons.
Saki's smile.
Saki, what have you done?
Wind, low mourning in red, red ribbons.
The ballerina falters, but he understands.
Her diaphanous wings are too frayed for flight.
Still sucking gently on his cut,
he lays his other hand,
frail and pale as bone,
on the music box's cover.
The crystalline chimes come to an abrubt halt
as the gold-and-porcelain box is shut.
He goes to Veronica,
resplendent on the bureau-throne
in frills and silk.
"I don't need her anymore."
A discordant smile,
a glimpse of twitching circuitry and Veronica
is pushed into his arms.
"You are my most beautiful doll."
"Veronica," he says, smiling shyly,
"I bought you a new dress."
He shows her.
"Do you like it?"
She beholds him with eagerness.
Her frigid hands, clammy with sweat, reach up to cup his face.
"Loveliest of all."
Her thumb jerks across the high ridge of his cheekbone.
He lifts Veronica into his arms --
such a gentle motion --
and sits her in his lap,
holding her dress,
red ribbons, gray lace,
black mourning trim,
on the side of the bed.
Saki's smile.
Mother's madness.
Tired ballerina and her weeping music,
and poor, innocent
Veronica.
"Let me help you."
Veronica smiles at him in thanks.
He touches her soft gold hair.
"I knew you'd like it,"
he says softly into her perfect ear,
"I got it just for you."
"My beautiful doll."