This is something tha I had to write for English class. I decided to be an over achiever and make it 120 lines long, heh heh. Read and review please! This is the first poem I'm actually proud of.
The Man in the Mask
By Nicole McGalliard
A fever.
A deadly virus to infect,
To make shiver or shudder
With the slightest draft.
A week or two,
Possibly even a month.
No one is able to help,
Not with the bile that rises to her throat.
Death is near,
And all have given up hope.
A friend.
A pure standing for beauty and intelligence,
Never ending knowledge of the opera.
To fetch the one, to fetch the Ange de Musique
Would be to save a life
But risk another.
Down, down, down
Down the winding steps,
Down through the catacombs.
A latch, a click.
Stale and murky water lie below her.
What kept her from falling
Down, down down
Down to the point where the cold stabs
Like daggers?
A hand, a strong grip,
Sturdy digits to wrap around her wrist
Pulling her easily to safety.
A dark silhouette,
Tall and strong.
Le Ange de Musique?
Through the twisting corridors,
Down, down, down
Down into a musky, damp, dimly lit lair.
No longer a silhouette,
But a masked man.
A face so perfect,
Gentle curves of a perfect jaw,
Gentle curves of a perfect nose
Met by nothing but the line
Of an ivory mask.
A light grebe gaze set in a frame of pale skin
Surrounded by slicked back locks of black.
A sigh
A plead
A tear falls to the already moist ground.
A moment of thought before a retreat.
"I'm not letting that leave you,"
Soft words come from smooth lips
Of the masked man.
Back through the twisting corridors
Back up through the catacombs
Back up the winding stairs.
Odd glances were given to the pair
As they made their way
To the room.
A room
Full of an air,
An air of illness and death creeping at their backs.
A friend,
Unwell, lying in her own sickness.
Hard he worked
To find a solution.
Hard he worked
To ponder a thought of what he needed.
A scrap of parchment,
Black ink scribbled on the surface.
Down, down, down
Down to the kitchen she was sent.
Up, up, up
Up to the room again,
Parsleym, basicl, oregano,
Boiling water in hand,
The ingredients, of course.
A mortar and pestle
Crushing, turning, crunching
Into a coarse powder.
Pouring and stirring
And finally to make
A thick green liquid.
He lifted the cup to her lips,
Forcing the repulsive concoction.
Down, down, down
Down the liquid went
Singing her throat.
A day or two, possibly a week.
The sick one now well,
Clashing foils in practice
With the faithful friend.
She is alive,
A spunky structure of energy again.
Her friend is grateful
To the mask
To the man,
The misunderstood man
Who hid behind the mask
To save his life.
He has saved the lives
Of the two friends
And they are grateful.
No more tears have fallen
No more tears have shed.
What became of the man,
The masked man,
With eyes set in a perfect frame?
"What became of him?"
They wondered as the light grew dim.
And the answer
They would never know
What became of the man
What became of the mask
That once stood
Beside her bed?
The man in the mask
That kept her from falling
Down, down, down
Down to death.