No, I don't own FMA. Wish I did. The poetry, however, is mine.
I'm new to the FMA fandom, so please forgive some of the mistakes I make.
This was inspired by English class – we were reading and discussing Eliot's The Waste Land (an example of modern poetry) when I got to thinking about FMA. The first line of the poem just screamed to life, and the rest practically wrote itself.
This is separated into three verses – the spacing effect makes it difficult to illustrate.
If you get any of the references, please tell me – I didn't get half of them myself!
Thirsty StarsThe blood-gold stone; too few have bled
To forge the essence of the dead
That springs to life within your eye
Because the sun must chase the sky
And every man who lives must die
Why do you shrink and cry in fright?
It is not even half the night
Before we heard the screech-owl cry.
OOOOOO
Because the fire's only flame
And all the power in a name
Is cradled in a pristine hand
There is a cloak across the land
So all our blessings sink to sand
To scramble, scream, for what was lost
You know the price. You know the cost.
The ancient pathways of the damned.
OOOOOOOO
For gold rings true. And even love –
(The soiled fist. The silken glove)
Is but a beast to twist and churn
For as the twisted prophets learn
The flint strikes true. The spark shall burn
The shriven horrors of the years
Too late for sighs. Too late for tears.
The hawk must chase the sun, and I
(The stars are fragments) Rise above.
