Lead and Gold
The first days were so different. Her soul was afire
With passion in a union surpassing all art.
But time spins ever onward, and beats its darkened wings
In their leaden rhythm, a dull drumbeat to ruin.
So the flames died quickly in the first winter's frost;
So resentment rode high, and waited for the end.
Effort reaps results, proving a means to an end,
And so she chose the reckless path. She rebuilt the fire,
Stoking red flames to thaw an embrace of frost.
But her soul is tired, tired of all these fruitless arts,
And as they soar she is grounded, trapped in the ruins.
(Flight is for cowards—or those with wings.)
Yet she glimpses an escape through this prison's winding wings,
And the gates stand open on a world without end.
A choice of two dragonhearts, both lamenting souls to ruin
Over past gifts squandered or lost in trial by fire.
His choice: golden, untouched fire with a hero's hollow prophecy
Or spend a lifetime clawing, scraping layers of dust and frost.
Never content with their cages, be they flame or frost
They spend their days in fury and wish that they had wings.
This is the way of men—or the hollow men of prophecy.
But he might make his great escape; bring this dance to an end,
And he could run for his salvation, run through her fire;
Or fall back to icy oblivion and welcome his ruin.
He gave himself away too soon; left with these ruins
Gathered around him now like tentacles of frost.
A choice: the golden one who lies desperate, caught in time's frozen fire
Or one who falters with limbs of lead, stumbling in search of true wings,
Or neither... decisions count for nothing in the end.
Entropy harvests all, all life and meaningless art.
He would reckon his sorrow, but he lacks such art.
Now the fortune's fool has doomed herself to ruin,
A kaleidoscope of choices and an uncertain end.
Turn alone to face the winter, and the spring after the frost;
Or search for fleeting joy on imaginary wings,
In passion born of brevity, short-lived as the First.
Salvation in prophecy? Prophecy failed to melt through frost
And find him in these ruins, but he hears the sound of wings
Calling out her end: soul versus flesh, ice versus fire.
Brother and sister, sister and brother, blood against blood against blood.
AN: Before you ask, no, I didn't lose my thesaurus. :P It's a sestina (possibly the worst format for poetry ever?) which is why there's a whole lot of word recycling going on.
This piece throws a few nods to my previous Dragonborn work, which is why it's piggybacking. I actually wrote it weeks ago, and never stuck it up here because it seemed fragmented somehow. Couldn't sleep, so I decided to kill some time polishing and playing around with it. And then post it, because what the hell. My account hasn't been a hive of activity lately. Hope someone enjoys it.
