AN: Malfoy's Mask had three stories up, two of which contains poetry written by me. He removed all his stuff when I took mine down in November/December of 2007 because he felt that if I wanted my stuff gone he should honor my wishes. This is being put here because he is gone from fanfiction completely, but I felt he did a wonderful job and wanted to share it with people who missed it first time around.
Disclaimers written by Malfoy's Mask: JKR still owns all the HP characters. I only killed Narcissa today because she wanted a vacation. The poem Silent Life is the property of Albert Smith and is copywrite protected. Please don't remove or use any part of it without her permission.
Silent Life
Narcissa Malfoy could have sworn that when she married and moved away from home that she would be able to build a life. Yet here she was, eighteen years into a marriage of convenience, still with nothing. At one point she could have sworn that she was on the right track. She had passed her NEWTs and spent the summer with Poppy Pomphrey, training to become a Medi-witch. Then she married THE Malfoy and along with owning her body, he somehow stole her dreams.
Alive, but not to live with color.
Monochromatic days revolve around
Black and white fantasies with no sound.
Enduring a loveless marriage was not too terribly difficult. Being the eye-candy of one of the richest men in the world had its benefits. It was only in the dark of the night after Lucius had 'done his duty to produce an heir' that Narcissa huddled in her bed alone and cried because the only thing not cold and barren in her life was her womb. It was just her luck that she could do the one thing she had been raised to do; produce a child to carry on the name of Malfoy.
Except the clicking of the reel,
Life plays out; uninspired acting;
Breathing, eating, always lacking.
And that was her life. Narcissa Malfoy the painted doll, supposed social butterfly… She often wondered what some wizards would think if they saw her the way she saw herself. It was terribly difficult to pretend interest in things that were of no consequence. Attending Quidditch World Cup matches and having beautiful boys sneer at you because you cannot mask the disgust at being in the company of your spouse. Those nameless faces would make nasty faces too if they had to breathe the evil that pervaded her very life.
Mouth open in a still frame,
Sepia tones stain the world brown.
Grainy picture wearing a frown.
And then to have your husband taken away and placed in Azkaban. The Wizarding prison where only the vilest of the vile were to reside. Somewhere, someone finally got it right. Now if they would only keep him there. But they didn't, and now the madman known as Lucius was free again. Narcissa sighed as she reached across her pillows and picked up the vial of Draught of Sleeping Death. She had made it herself and knew it was of the highest quality. Her husband lost to insanity because of a madman. Her son lost to insanity because her husband killed his bonded. There really was not anything anchoring her to the here and now. With one final prayer to what ever deity was working the night shift, she prayed that no one would not find her until it was too late for her to be 'saved'.
Old silent movies make you cry.
Final credits flash across the screen.
Life ends with the death of a dream.