Author's note: Inspired by the poem Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley, which everyone should definitely give a read! I hope people enjoy it. Please review~

Content warning: None besides the central theme of the poem being Sebastian mourning the loss of his young master Ciel.

Disclaimer: I do not claim to own the poem Ozymandias; all rights to that poem belong to Percy Bysshe Shelley. That being said, I do not claim to own Kuroshitsuji, whose rights belong to Yana Toboso and any other involved parties.

How fair! The noble bell, it tolls

upon this gruesome morn.

My Master is long since dead and gone;

from forth his birth sprung pain and suff'ring.

O Heavenly One, He who is blessed with holy light

would scorn and shame my little Lord—

spit that he was doomed from the start,

but still I hoped—(and that is a pun all in itself)—

that he would lay with my fragile flesh and bone,

a suit perfect to his cerulean eyes and misty mind,

still breathing sweet air.

Air that was mine. Lost air, vanished air, gone.

I wished to see him one last time in the bitter chill,

so that only I would be witness to his faiblesse.

To study the trembling fists that beat warmth to his breast,

watch those immaculate fingers curl and clench

at the wool of his over coat and mine.

He did not even swallow the autumn air before I took him.

He did not see the fuchsia leaves, the wilting buds,

before I took him.

The end was always inevitable, I insist …

Insist to whom? Myself, the shadows?

I was the unbreakable, the unshakable,

the option none should choose.

I am the curse and the cursed;

my breath is tainted.

Tainted.

Tainting

to soft, supple flesh, such as his.

I am sweet poison

dripping like sticky syrup and coating numb throats with ease.

A pain remedy that kills quietly, subtly.

I knew I would destroy him. A temple defaced; a soul misplaced.

And yet, here lay I,

weeping upon his grave.

The little grave that never was.

The little grave for my little master.

And, oh— I teased him yet,

called him "child" and "precious" and "sweet"

but, in truth, I was the child

to think there was no way his grip would take hold of me.

How wrong I was, how wrong I was!

I mourn for his pain and loss,

for now it has become mine,

and his love, his amour, also mine;

—all of him, mine at last—

as he dwells in the fire of my belly.