Song for the Lost

Description From Kenshin's point of view. He's wandered a long time, seeking absolution for all the murders he's committed and for all the darkness that's gathering inside. (Soliloquy/monologue style.) All poetry is original work; however, I do not own Himura Kenshin.

You cannot reflect something that is not there, just as you cannot reflect the exact depths of a deep cold well without going down it.

I have been down the proverbial well, that I have, and I cannot seem to surface.

How many steps does it take to cross from being at home to being far, far away? Surely I have crossed that line many times. I cannot seem to find my way back, either, because I have been so long away. This is one thing I must do for myself, however, and the shining edge of a blade cannot absolve me of the many times I have used it for purposes that were stray from what it was meant to be used. I have ended lives with it, distributing what I deemed 'justice' liberally.

But that is over now. I will not steal innocent lives -- I will protect them.

For their own sake.

I wonder what would happen if others looked at me through their untainted eyes without prejudice or fear or any such disturbing emotion. I wonder -- what would they see?

Would they see me as a killer, a murderer, that which I have tried so hard to escape?

I know my appearance is perfectly opposite my behavior. I know I am small and fair, and I have a wealth of red hair, and my eyes are an indeterminate shade of violet. I know I seem frail for my size, but would they see the darkness spreading beneath the mask? Would they see my bloodstained spirit and the pain that remains even now?

There have been times that I have looked into a pool of water and seen myself hazily, and I could not help but wonder: even though I am seeing myself through my own eyes, does anyone see the desperation? Can anyone hear me -- the me that is, not the cold-blooded killer -- when I speak?

Does the smile on my face mean nothing to them? Am I something to be feared?

Maybe the cross-shaped scar is what intimidates them. I'm afraid that's what it is. It has ceased to bother me, that it has, but I'm still searching for a way to let them see that I mean them no trouble. I want them to feel easy and completely happy around me.

As this sky darkens into night, and every light the firmaments bear is lit in tiny pinpricks of brilliance against the indigo drapes of sleep, I sit and count them...

... as if I could ever number them.

I cannot fathom that which is,

Or will be,

But I can clearly see the past

With eyes unclouded by hope

The velvet night descends all around and I am still outdoors, still seeking refuge for my troubled mind, trying to bury it far away from the questions it raises that I cannot answer. Why can I not see the present? Why must I be selfish to be selfless? I do not wish to keep to myself, but yet there is still this burning within me that cannot be quenched, this conflagration that threatens to consume me as it once did into its hellish depths. It promises so many things, but yet I must keep fighting. I must keep the mask of serenity and cheer in place, because if I did not, they would fear me all the more.

Do not be afraid of me; I seek to do you no harm...

"Do not be afraid," I whisper into the night. "I am no longer that which was, and I am looking forward to a future I cannot see to gain hope for today. It is my only hope." My voice echoes strangely in the lively night. There are sounds that mute it, mar the clean soft pitch of it, and it bounces back a pale echo of the strong declaration that I made.

The night does frightening things to a man's mind.

I cannot begin to understand

All the opportunity today brings

Until it becomes tomorrow