Spike's Sestina: California Demons
Thought I'd try something tricky this time--a sestina.
You can find the definition of a sestina here.
California Demons
Strange that I'm spending my afterlife here in the City of Angels.
I suspect I was sent by a divine judge-jester, who threw the book
At me. Now I wander the halls of my sire's firm, pondering justice and law,
Amusing myself, taunting him, speaking of the Slayer we both love,
Wanting life (or peace, or light), haunting him both day and night,
Reminding him (could he forget?) that yes, I died to save the world.
I knew it wouldn't wipe out all I'd done, but still I hoped the underworld
Would count it--six billion lives preserved, neither damned nor angels,
Saved by (forgive the Victorian melodrama) "a monstrous creature of the night."
Even fulfilled an obscure prophecy from some ancient sect's crumbling book.
Not sure why. Not for her, the Summers Slayer; she needed me, but did not love.
The First, perhaps? I knew too well how it forced all to serve its Will, its Law.
When I died--again--consumed by fire, sun and soul, I hoped then that Hell's law
Would have no further power over me; mythical heroes brave the underworld,
Tether Cerebus, then return, their crimes forgotten, to those they love.
Stupid to cling to such a hope. Vampires don't ascend to heaven as angels,
Trading our supposed bat wings for feathers: no place for us, in Heaven's Book.
Hell seems less exclusive, willing to drag even a souled demon into eternal night.
I fought, pleaded, whined--this was no time for pride. Not one night
Would I spend in that place of chaos and horror, pain and un-law.
(Would there be pain? Flames crisping me like brittle pages in a book?)
Delaying the inevitable is still a delay; a few more moments in the world,
A few less eternities there. I turned to Fred. Brain girl, alone of Angel's
Crew, still had faith in their mission; the others had found something more to love.
Fred told my grandsire he could not choose who not to save--that hate or love
Didn't matter. Wish I had seen his eyes, burning like bonfires at midnight,
When she told him that, reminding him they fought on the side of the angels.
Strange words at Wolfram & Hart! I heard she made it sound like nature's law.
Wish I'd known this while battling Pavayne in his eerie, fear-spawned world,
A twisted, madness shaped reality straight from Lovecraft's unholy book.
Pavayne is gone now--or almost gone, save as a debit in the firm's account book:
Rent for a prison cell in which time stops. No motion, speech, no touch of love
Or hate, kick or caress; no need to eat or sleep, severed from the world,
Like being entombed within a crypt, staring bleakly into empty, endless night.
He got what he gave--poetic justice. For arch-villains, it's practically a law.
I should rejoice--but then I wonder...what would be my fate, or Angel's?
So by night I stand on the rooftop, and muse on destiny, angels,
The other world, and fear my future is a sealed book
Pure Murphy's Law: damned by the soul I chose to get for love.
You can find the definition of a sestina here.
California Demons
Strange that I'm spending my afterlife here in the City of Angels.
I suspect I was sent by a divine judge-jester, who threw the book
At me. Now I wander the halls of my sire's firm, pondering justice and law,
Amusing myself, taunting him, speaking of the Slayer we both love,
Wanting life (or peace, or light), haunting him both day and night,
Reminding him (could he forget?) that yes, I died to save the world.
I knew it wouldn't wipe out all I'd done, but still I hoped the underworld
Would count it--six billion lives preserved, neither damned nor angels,
Saved by (forgive the Victorian melodrama) "a monstrous creature of the night."
Even fulfilled an obscure prophecy from some ancient sect's crumbling book.
Not sure why. Not for her, the Summers Slayer; she needed me, but did not love.
The First, perhaps? I knew too well how it forced all to serve its Will, its Law.
When I died--again--consumed by fire, sun and soul, I hoped then that Hell's law
Would have no further power over me; mythical heroes brave the underworld,
Tether Cerebus, then return, their crimes forgotten, to those they love.
Stupid to cling to such a hope. Vampires don't ascend to heaven as angels,
Trading our supposed bat wings for feathers: no place for us, in Heaven's Book.
Hell seems less exclusive, willing to drag even a souled demon into eternal night.
I fought, pleaded, whined--this was no time for pride. Not one night
Would I spend in that place of chaos and horror, pain and un-law.
(Would there be pain? Flames crisping me like brittle pages in a book?)
Delaying the inevitable is still a delay; a few more moments in the world,
A few less eternities there. I turned to Fred. Brain girl, alone of Angel's
Crew, still had faith in their mission; the others had found something more to love.
Fred told my grandsire he could not choose who not to save--that hate or love
Didn't matter. Wish I had seen his eyes, burning like bonfires at midnight,
When she told him that, reminding him they fought on the side of the angels.
Strange words at Wolfram & Hart! I heard she made it sound like nature's law.
Wish I'd known this while battling Pavayne in his eerie, fear-spawned world,
A twisted, madness shaped reality straight from Lovecraft's unholy book.
Pavayne is gone now--or almost gone, save as a debit in the firm's account book:
Rent for a prison cell in which time stops. No motion, speech, no touch of love
Or hate, kick or caress; no need to eat or sleep, severed from the world,
Like being entombed within a crypt, staring bleakly into empty, endless night.
He got what he gave--poetic justice. For arch-villains, it's practically a law.
I should rejoice--but then I wonder...what would be my fate, or Angel's?
So by night I stand on the rooftop, and muse on destiny, angels,
The other world, and fear my future is a sealed book
Pure Murphy's Law: damned by the soul I chose to get for love.