Poem: The Darkness Cleave

[scribblemyname]

So, lithiumlaughter asked me about What happened to the wings? in the original version of this poem, so I asked the character who wrote it and he laughed, a little darkly, and told me, “How could I tell her everything she made me feel?” Then he gave me the rest of the poem.

---

When the fires of love ignited and burned,
I realized all I had ever learned
Could not compare to the wings in me
When your hand touched mine and set them free:

I never knew quite how to fly,
But I know the physics of a frozen cry,
Of weary feet on a darkened road,
Of stinging warmth to a heart gone cold;

I know the taste of the oft-betrayed,
Sweet and bitter when pain’s delayed.
Vestigial wings the darkness cleave,
And all I know is how to leave:

Burn the tears until diamonds shatter;
Light the road with flames that matter;
Kindling be and burn in the dark—
Sacrifice this worthless heart.

Where I would fall and into shards,
You gather me up like a deck of cards.
Fallen phoenix from ashen grim
The fingers sew and scissors trim.

Who from blood can a butterfly make;
Who can heal and make it take?
Who can bind the broken things?
Who can break what makes them me,

Can mend the wings and mend the quick—
Broken and bloody, bruised and slick?
I want to run from this spell you weave,
But I’ve forgotten how to leave.

Then I choose my path anew
(I’d do it all again for you):
Burn the road ’til it lights the dark;
Stretch these wings with ashen mark;

Whisper words you would not hear
Softly, gently upon your ear.
The fires of love I understand;
The wings I leave within your hand.

Originally published at Liana Mir. You can comment here or there.

Comments

[lithiumlaughter.livejournal.com]

But I know the physics of a frozen cry...
Oh, wow. You've actually made the 'cry' (which I read personally as a scream) something solid and real by applying the word physics and frozen to it. It's an actual thing you can touch and taste and move and feel. I read this, and I think of one of those ice cubes that's almost like dry ice at the top, so when you touch it, your fingers stick, and it's almost like a burn...which brings it all around and makes this so very apropos, given the speaker.

And all I know is how to leave...
Light the road with flames that matter;
Kindling be and burn in the dark—
Sacrifice this worthless heart.
This is self-loathing at it's most crystal clear. Kindling be and burn in the dark -- I love the rhythm and cadence of those words. It's beautiful.

Who from blood can a butterfly make;
Who can heal and make it take?
These are officially my favourite two lines in this piece. It's not the way the words roll off the tongue. It's not the simple rhyme. It's not even the image of a butterfly or a wound. It's this incredible underlying pain. Who can create something beautiful from pain? Blood isn't free, and butterflies certainly don't come from nothing, but how can you translate pain in to beauty? There's no cocoon that will do that.
Then there's that second line. There's almost the suggestion of a skin graft, really. It takes some very careful work to make a skin graft take. And considering they're applied to severe burns...and I'm doing that line a disservice. It's gorgeous. Full stop.

But I’ve forgotten how to leave.
And it comes around and around again. Lost memory, pain, fear, and in the end, trusting the wings to someone's care. What a leap of faith from a broken speaker.

Thank you for sharing this. Thank him too.

[scribblemyname]

I officially love you. Of course, you probably already knew that. Thanked the author and hugs you for asking. I would never had asked him and missed out on a lot going on under the surface. And how I wish I could cure him of that self-loathing, but I'm not sure if she even ever manages that.