Really weird poetry splurge thingy… Posted at 4:00 AM, so blame the evils of insomnia. Not capable of thought right now, so tell me what ya think and I'll take your word for it.
Fire and Ice
Some say the
world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted
of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to
perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for
destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Robert Frost
0o0
When he was young, Horo witnessed a small storage hut in his village burn to the ground, the familiar earth tones of the construct reduced to ashes on an otherwise snow covered ground. The Ainu was mesmerized watching it succumb to the fire's will.
The vivid writhing of the flames.
The wild dance of sanguine streaks and glowing yellow.
It's still clear in his memory, but always first remembered is the dominating, pressing heat pushing past his skin, through his soul, daring him to rebel against that which he could never resist. Before him had been an avatar of Death, ever Death: crucial for Life, but undeniably a hunger that could never truly be satiated, consuming everything it touched, every crumb and every smear, before reaching with swift fingers for more. A boy, he did not understand why it affected him so, but he fancies he has learned.
Because Ren is fire, hot on his skin, hot on is lips, and hot inside of him, burning inside of him, and when those yellow eyes are pushing past all the barriers and the sanguine red of hot skin is all he can focus on, he can smell the smoke, taste the heat, can feel himself dying in bursts and blossoms of flame again and again.
But the fire lets him live, because he needs it, and because Ren can never get enough, will never be satisfied, and Horo is grateful, because he is sure now that there is no better way to die.
-
At a place of many graves, Ren remembers what he has tasted of the one that has claimed the sleeping around him. White snow floats lazily down, lightly coating all of them, and Ren welcomes it as he always has. Cold it is, and cold it was.
Fate had seen to wrought resplendent entropy within Ren. Voices of the felled, those he had felled, screamed in a conflicting dissonance, screamed lest he who had no right to peace gain it. He was a monster. He did not deserve it.
Scars (so many, too many) sank below his skin, sank down until they stirred things within him that were of darkness, stirred iniquities even he would never have dreamed himself capable of harboring. It was chaos in the worst way. It was war within him, the clashing of sword steel and sobs and blood he had tried to wash clean, and he wanted it to stop, please stop, wanted peace!
The Tao had not, however expect solace in ice.
With hate for the turmoil inside of him, abhorring his ghosts that refused to die, and like some kind of angel, Horokeu had come. With his advent came winter, hands that were always too cold, hands that soothed, touches that steeped everything in a visceral winter that Ren never wanted to melt away.
One by one, every demon was buried forever in cold, cruel sheets of diamond-glitter ice and snow. The discord of voices, cursing and ranting and screaming, was suddenly silenced by brumal winds and celadon eyes that never seemed to fail in stilling all things. The stillness, the calm he kindled was bliss, though Ren realized it was the death of himself in many ways…but if this was death, than the Reaper's icy kiss must be Heaven.
…Please review.