Note: I haven't written an awful lot lately, so it's nice to put pen to paper again. Of course, this poem is possible a little premature, as I know next to nothing about Rising, but I know a little about Lady Murasaki, and just imagined a beach, on a cold grey day, with perhaps a little drizzle…
SHELLS
a Hannibal Rising poem by JetNoir
It started with a shell
by itself on the shore
in it's own way, like me
sort of
perhaps.
It's nothing, in my
mind - fractured as it
is, my kimono a little loose
and it's extraordinarily
cold.
I pick the shell
up, between my fifth
and sixth fingers.
Gazing at it, I feel
empty.
As empty as a
shell. Placing it to
my ear I can hear
the sound of the
sea.
The sound of the shell
not empty, as I am,
a husk of air
cold to every
existence.
My sister, dead on
the ground, but I
never saw her, nothing
but her teeth, and I call out
Mischa.
I'm alone now, in silence
in dark, and sea, locked in
my own misery, until
I'm not even a
shell.
Not anymore.
Disclaimer:
Hannibal Rising is copyright to Thomas Harris; and the poem to
me. This poem has been written on the understanding that you may read
it and print it out; but you may not pass it off as your own, hire it
out, or sell it for money. You also may not put it on your own or any
other web page (this includes links) without my express written
permission. Thankyou!
JetNoir