***************** Notes from Author ***************** Very off beat fic. Without spoiling the story, I'll leave you with these reading guidelines: 1.) I left this vague for a reason: it is meant to mean different things to different people. Don't ask me what it means, ask yourself what it means. 2.) Please keep everything that you have ever read in the relationship department (romantic or not!!!) in mind. 3.) Use your imagination to fill in the gaps. There is no wrong interpretation. 4.) After you have finished the story, reread the poem. As always, I'd like to thank everyone who reads this story. Email me, tell me what you think, what you thought puzzling, and what you dislike. If you're wondering where the poem comes from, it's an original work by me; strange and weird, but it gets the job done. Disclaimer: Everything associated with Sailor Moon is in no way, shape, or form owned by me. I don't intend to make any money off of this; that's up to the larger than life corporations out there. All that jazz about Sailor Moon in tons of disclaimers out there apply. email: doniswong@hotmail.com Rated: PG (some fairly disturbing images) A life need not be great nor pitiful nor late for all of you a desert land and a grain of sand 'Cause once you were a mirror and not a speck of earth to wallow and to spin according to some whim While once I was you you are now I I but a shadow of you a shadow a shadow of me What you and I once said ashes to ashes dust to dust what goes around comes around we become what we fight Means not a dime nor a quarter nor the shine for all of you a desert land and a grain of sand To see and be blind to this world of mine to attend to all who matter to attend to me myself and I You stop within your time stopping for that very dime mirror you are sand you will be Walk into this shadow cover your blind eyes and deny what they see for now mine later thine Remember one day when darkness slumbers for all of you a desert land and a grain of sand "A Day In The Life of a Poem" A fanfic by Don They say it never happens to you. They say it's harder than getting struck by lightning. They say it can never happen to you... to me... Ahhhh my friend, but it does. I open my eyes, head still throbbing from the immense pain. The world spins on its own accord, sending dizzying spells into my consciousness. I want to throw up, but the sharp stab that pinches my body to the bed stops my muscles from convulsing. My pain is my prison. My mouth is hoarse, parched from a drought of unknown time. My eyelids are heavy, tied down by lead weights. I fight to have them stay open; somehow, I know if they close, they'll never open... ever. I hear my blasting pulse, that strange sensation when the blood flows so powerfully that you feel every artery expand and contract. Thump. It hurts, muddling my already muddled consciousness. Thump. All the while, looming over me like Death's spawn, dark spots try to rob me of my life, threatening to send me to their bony master. Thump. Like always, I fight. In the course of my battles, I let out a weak whimper that thunders in my sensitive ears and tears at my dehydrated throat. A speckle of blood flies limply into the air as a result of my pathetic cough. It arches backwards, nose-diving into my face, straight into my eye. I blink, and then, I can't open my eyes anymore. Darkness closes in around me, imprisoning me. It's all I feel, this thick, impenetrable fortress of... of... ... solitude... .... silence... ... suffering. Help me. Somebody, anybody. It hurts so much yet feels so good. I want to give up. I want to rest. But the rest is bad. The rest is hell. The rest will only give me myself. I need more than myself. Help me. Vaguely, off in the shadowed wilderness, there is a monotonous sound, one high-pitched like a bat's ravenous scream. It is a bad sound. I don't know what it is, but it is a bad sound. The noise moves into the background, slowly disappearing, replaced by a soundless symphony. I succumb to the tempting dance of ages, the dance of death. I move with the predestined patterns, weaving myself a hammock for my soul. There is release, freedom, but there is a cost; I no longer feel complete. My arms move on their accord, swaying to the gentle and commanding whim of Death. Each fiber of me is being picked apart, examined, and discarded. I am disappearing. First, it starts with my hand. My left hand. The hand I always considered more important. It knows what I value; it knows what I had. Under that tattered black hood, I notice a small smile creep across its morbid face - it loves to see me like this, willingly giving myself away. It loves my stoic torture. It is sadistic. Suddenly, I ripple. I break apart and convulse. What is this I feel? Pain? Physical pain? A scowl comes across its face as I unwittingly slip from its firm grasp. The former smirk turns upside down, muttering some ancient curse. The bat's scream comes to the foreground... And then stops. Thump. What is that? Thump. It's familiar and foreign. I've had it before, but I lost it. Thump. I quietly listen - Thump - the sun dispelling the great shadows shielding my life. Thump. I wake, but wake to what? To screams? Yes, violent yelling, blurring of sounds, maelstrom of thoughts. What have I done to deserve to be a partner with the reaper, then to be cast off into this sea of frenzied chaos? What have I done indeed... But they soon leave, leave me be, alone, unattended, cast off into this now quiet-once-disturbed ocean of physical nothingness. Something is draped over me, shielding my body like another body. It is warm, homely, comforting. It feels like a blanket, but to me, it is a life preserver in a violent sea. A tolling comes into my lame hearing. Is it a bell? No, but sound is monotonous. It pulses to the peculiar rhythm of my heart, following it like a loyal watch dog. It is a good sound, a good dog. Slowly, I peel open my welded eyes, forcing them open with my inborn jaws of life: willpower. The struggle is difficult, very difficult indeed; for every stream of light shining through, a blast of shock sends my sight reeling, closing. Sweat beads down my forehead, either sweat or blood. It is testimony to my struggles, a witness to my stubbornness... a reminder of my previous defeat. As my chains become undone, the sun brilliantly looms overhead. A wild, yet purposeful wind whips into my nose and mouth, rejuvenating me. Somehow, the thick strands of hair - the ones matted down across my forehead and draped across my worldly mirrors - are not moving to gusts. They stand still like stoic guards of the Chinese Terra-cotta, unwavering at their evermore posts. The air is clean, refreshing. It is crisp, yet devoid of everything. Where is the sweet rosemary or vibrant rose? Where is the ticklish pollen or biting twig? Where, even, is the smoke or smog? Seems this air is only a projection, a falsification, a shadow like in Plato's famous allegory. Where is the real air? I crane my neck; it rolls. The sun sets off to the west, no longer glaring in my face; the movement of the world - my world - disturbs the bellicose statues, knocking them over and relieving them of their duties. The air suddenly stops moving and I am introduced to a hissing sound, a hissing sound and a stench, a stench of blood and chemicals. All is a blur, but beyond a looking glass adjourned with circles and horns, I see a girl. My girl. Her hair is thick and beautiful, though now the splendor from yesterday gone, chased away by the reality of today. Replacing that look - that hopeful, meaningful, careful look - is a haggard complexion of a woman well beyond her years. She feels betrayed - my girl, betrayed. By who? By destiny, by God, by love, by some higher power other than the atrophied water skins we call humans. And she closes her eyes in fear. I want to pry them open, to have them shine through that looking glass, that plate of solidified air-once-sand, and have them show me how wonderful the setting sun can be. I want to have them see true strength: I want to pass on mine. She'll need it. My girl... my little girl... She'll need every ounce of it. Hesitantly, she accepts my silent challenge and resumes her former vigil. Our gazes lock like two blades, blades of a master and a disciple, the master teaching the disciple a last technique before... before... the end. So much I want to say; so much I cannot. I wonder if she'll understand it all... though I hardly consider myself a master. My life is so simple, so insignificant compared to the one she will face. Sadness, rejection, loss, bitterness - the evils once captive in Pandora's box will visit her in full attendance save one, the one evil still prisoner: hope. When the day draws to a close, where will she be? When she comes home, will she be greeted by silence? When she lies in bed, will hope imbue its fanciful dreams in her mind? When her tears fall to floor, will I be there to catch them? All I can see is her lithe body huddled in a forbidden corner of her room, befriended by her pitiful sobs, besieged by a moat of tears. Be strong, my darling, be strong. My words mean nothing more, my lessons can be taught nevermore. While I fight to keep my eyes open, fight to keep my memory alive, but if it is too painful, I understand. If the time should come, bury me in the farthest reaches of the mind, in the farthest corners of the earth. Remember I will always be there through thick and thin, through day and night, through glee and gloom. Though day sets on my life, I will be home. Though my not voice be heard, I will give a warm greeting when the door opens. Though hope may not leave its gilded cage, I will leave mine. Though I may not catch those falling tears, I will try like every drop was the last. What was once mine - my strength, my weakness, my memory, my mind - I leave behind. They are useless to me. Take them my darling, my girl, and let them comfort the pestilent soul. I will be there no more. The tide comes washing over me and drags my carcass out to sea. The remnants of the sun in the horizon fade into a perpetual night. As I close my eyes in fear, I utter a final good-bye to my darling, my girl. It is small, slight, but she saw it; I know she did. I am hurled into the bony arms of Death once again, into its waiting arms, ready to continue with its dance, its sadistic dance of self worship. Willingly, I give myself away because it is the only thing I can do. The cacophonous scream of the bat intermingles with the rest of the unheard orchestra, lulling me into eternal rest, into my self-made hammock of torture. In the shadows, I look forward to a new day. A life need not be great nor pitiful nor late for all of you a desert land and a grain of sand 'Cause once you were a mirror and not a speck of earth to wallow and to spin according to some whim While once I was you you are now I I but a shadow of you a shadow a shadow of me What you and I once said ashes to ashes dust to dust what goes around comes around we become what we fight Means not a dime nor a quarter nor the shine for all of you a desert land and a grain of sand To see and be blind to this world of mine to attend to all who matter to attend to me myself and I You stop within your time stopping for that very dime mirror you are sand you will be Walk into this shadow cover your blind eyes and deny what they see for now mine later thine Remember one day when darkness slumbers for all of you a desert land and a grain of sand -Don.