Obsidian and Silver
Have done a wealth of completing and re-editing in the past few days, so there should be a slow trickle of fics/drabbles/poems in the next few days (and I am so godawfully slow about it). To begin, a Harry/Draco poem that I'm not at all sure if I like. It's free-form, but I think I might later change it to have some kind of rhyme scheme. Oh, and it's a bit long. Not epic, but long just the same.
Title: Obsidian and Silver
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: PG
Warnings: Implied slashy sex, I guess
Genre: Poetry
Obsidian and Silver
The last long stand
of daylight
is made all the more trembling
by anticipation;
the sun's bright phalanx
emerging out of valleys
and gilding the tops of colored hills
in its retreat,
before the swallowing shadows
canter in
to steal the breath of waking.
There is no word of time for
boys, too lately men,
no staring clock to mark
the hours passed in
fretful leisure,
no human eye, yet many
to witness the stifled descent, pale
footfalls dogged by
an abstract terror of discovery.
In keeping with the tolling bell,
strike midnight and the
secret still untold,
the sweep of cloak and
lovers haste a pressing
thing,
haste to the fringe of wood
and leaf to surrender
a quiet meeting.
In terms of the martyr's wild
lore, the flaming downstroke of
an angel's sword was the
serpents doing - the lion placid
in the bed of the lamb; 'tis
a godless precedent
indeed to see the lamb
abandoned, and the king of beasts
gone to lie
with the snake instead.
Not so much twined
as knotted in mutual conspiracy,
never so much
willing as drawn this way,
fractured lines and open mouths
less plausible by moonlight - here
a grappling stroke, there
the dissolution of the concrete and
the sane -
all roads led to this.
There is to consider the
way they collide,
in the weighty dark of
smudged desire an unwanted contrast,
a collection of stills and boyish angles;
the barbarians invading with clumsy
grace; their standards
bearing the figure that devours
itself, one head in sharp
relief against the waiting other;
one breath taken
one fist clenched
quarry marked, body raised in solemn
invocation,
a sigh.
Then Phoebus' chariot comes again,
drawing back the nightly veils
on the tableau, inspiring alarm
and vulgar flight,
the racing sound of steps
in vaulted corridors;
all through the day a
soundless duologue, discordance ringing
audibly as the actors move
their place and make their discourse;
but in the shade of dusk,
the falling quiet,
a compromise is woven,
and we descend,
we descend.
Title: Obsidian and Silver
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: PG
Warnings: Implied slashy sex, I guess
Genre: Poetry
Obsidian and Silver
The last long stand
of daylight
is made all the more trembling
by anticipation;
the sun's bright phalanx
emerging out of valleys
and gilding the tops of colored hills
in its retreat,
before the swallowing shadows
canter in
to steal the breath of waking.
There is no word of time for
boys, too lately men,
no staring clock to mark
the hours passed in
fretful leisure,
no human eye, yet many
to witness the stifled descent, pale
footfalls dogged by
an abstract terror of discovery.
In keeping with the tolling bell,
strike midnight and the
secret still untold,
the sweep of cloak and
lovers haste a pressing
thing,
haste to the fringe of wood
and leaf to surrender
a quiet meeting.
In terms of the martyr's wild
lore, the flaming downstroke of
an angel's sword was the
serpents doing - the lion placid
in the bed of the lamb; 'tis
a godless precedent
indeed to see the lamb
abandoned, and the king of beasts
gone to lie
with the snake instead.
Not so much twined
as knotted in mutual conspiracy,
never so much
willing as drawn this way,
fractured lines and open mouths
less plausible by moonlight - here
a grappling stroke, there
the dissolution of the concrete and
the sane -
all roads led to this.
There is to consider the
way they collide,
in the weighty dark of
smudged desire an unwanted contrast,
a collection of stills and boyish angles;
the barbarians invading with clumsy
grace; their standards
bearing the figure that devours
itself, one head in sharp
relief against the waiting other;
one breath taken
one fist clenched
quarry marked, body raised in solemn
invocation,
a sigh.
Then Phoebus' chariot comes again,
drawing back the nightly veils
on the tableau, inspiring alarm
and vulgar flight,
the racing sound of steps
in vaulted corridors;
all through the day a
soundless duologue, discordance ringing
audibly as the actors move
their place and make their discourse;
but in the shade of dusk,
the falling quiet,
a compromise is woven,
and we descend,
we descend.