This is something tha I had to write for English class. I decided to be an over achiever and make it 120 lines long, heh heh. Read and review please! This is the first poem I'm actually proud of.


The Man in the Mask

By Nicole McGalliard

A fever.

A deadly virus to infect,

To make shiver or shudder

With the slightest draft.

A week or two,

Possibly even a month.

No one is able to help,

Not with the bile that rises to her throat.

Death is near,

And all have given up hope.

A friend.

A pure standing for beauty and intelligence,

Never ending knowledge of the opera.

To fetch the one, to fetch the Ange de Musique

Would be to save a life

But risk another.

Down, down, down

Down the winding steps,

Down through the catacombs.

A latch, a click.

Stale and murky water lie below her.

What kept her from falling

Down, down down

Down to the point where the cold stabs

Like daggers?

A hand, a strong grip,

Sturdy digits to wrap around her wrist

Pulling her easily to safety.

A dark silhouette,

Tall and strong.

Le Ange de Musique?

Through the twisting corridors,

Down, down, down

Down into a musky, damp, dimly lit lair.

No longer a silhouette,

But a masked man.

A face so perfect,

Gentle curves of a perfect jaw,

Gentle curves of a perfect nose

Met by nothing but the line

Of an ivory mask.

A light grebe gaze set in a frame of pale skin

Surrounded by slicked back locks of black.

A sigh

A plead

A tear falls to the already moist ground.

A moment of thought before a retreat.

"I'm not letting that leave you,"

Soft words come from smooth lips

Of the masked man.

Back through the twisting corridors

Back up through the catacombs

Back up the winding stairs.

Odd glances were given to the pair

As they made their way

To the room.

A room

Full of an air,

An air of illness and death creeping at their backs.

A friend,

Unwell, lying in her own sickness.

Hard he worked

To find a solution.

Hard he worked

To ponder a thought of what he needed.

A scrap of parchment,

Black ink scribbled on the surface.

Down, down, down

Down to the kitchen she was sent.

Up, up, up

Up to the room again,

Parsleym, basicl, oregano,

Boiling water in hand,

The ingredients, of course.

A mortar and pestle

Crushing, turning, crunching

Into a coarse powder.

Pouring and stirring

And finally to make

A thick green liquid.

He lifted the cup to her lips,

Forcing the repulsive concoction.

Down, down, down

Down the liquid went

Singing her throat.

A day or two, possibly a week.

The sick one now well,

Clashing foils in practice

With the faithful friend.

She is alive,

A spunky structure of energy again.

Her friend is grateful

To the mask

To the man,

The misunderstood man

Who hid behind the mask

To save his life.

He has saved the lives

Of the two friends

And they are grateful.

No more tears have fallen

No more tears have shed.

What became of the man,

The masked man,

With eyes set in a perfect frame?

"What became of him?"

They wondered as the light grew dim.

And the answer

They would never know

What became of the man

What became of the mask

That once stood

Beside her bed?

The man in the mask

That kept her from falling

Down, down, down

Down to death.