Poetry: Safety in Unwanted Things
Aug. 9th, 2006 10:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stuttermoanTitle: Safety in Unwanted Things
Pairings/Characters: SS/HP
Ratings: PG
Warnings: Emo-fluff. Lint?
Summary: The world knows only who they aren't.
Author's Notes: Punctuating this nearly killed me. It might look nice brit-picked, if I knew someone to do it.
I.
Standing behind the bigger boy, even
His shadow is second-hand:
A flat, grey ghost under a
Tantrum thundercloud.
The folds in his overlarge clothes make him look
Like he is shrinking.
He watches presents emerge from bright paper
And anticipates the day they are broken or forgotten;
There is safety in unwanted things.
II.
Tears are more over than they've ever been;
The war had dissolved into a slumped sigh,
Mumbling a prayer of thanks to him
(With few words for the dead or ruined).
And now the world is arranged on his table
In bright paper, waiting for his hands,
And he takes what he never could.
He takes and takes
Of food, and things, and sights,
And company, especially
But he can't stand their faces
Admiring his triumph in false faith
That he can never be broken.
Just shake me, he thinks.
My skin is bright paper
But inside, I'm pieces.
III.
He finds the man in a pile of dust-colored shadows
Drinking fiercely, scolding himself to the silence.
He can't explain his presence, or his purpose
Other than to say I've found you,
But somehow, that's enough.
He doesn't have to mention how the world
Knows only who they aren't.
He takes the man, and his books,
And tucks them gently
In the safest shelf of his life.
He sees the man's valor;
The man has trust in his frailty
And their broken edges fit.
There is safety in unwanted things.
Pairings/Characters: SS/HP
Ratings: PG
Warnings: Emo-fluff. Lint?
Summary: The world knows only who they aren't.
Author's Notes: Punctuating this nearly killed me. It might look nice brit-picked, if I knew someone to do it.
I.
Standing behind the bigger boy, even
His shadow is second-hand:
A flat, grey ghost under a
Tantrum thundercloud.
The folds in his overlarge clothes make him look
Like he is shrinking.
He watches presents emerge from bright paper
And anticipates the day they are broken or forgotten;
There is safety in unwanted things.
II.
Tears are more over than they've ever been;
The war had dissolved into a slumped sigh,
Mumbling a prayer of thanks to him
(With few words for the dead or ruined).
And now the world is arranged on his table
In bright paper, waiting for his hands,
And he takes what he never could.
He takes and takes
Of food, and things, and sights,
And company, especially
But he can't stand their faces
Admiring his triumph in false faith
That he can never be broken.
Just shake me, he thinks.
My skin is bright paper
But inside, I'm pieces.
III.
He finds the man in a pile of dust-colored shadows
Drinking fiercely, scolding himself to the silence.
He can't explain his presence, or his purpose
Other than to say I've found you,
But somehow, that's enough.
He doesn't have to mention how the world
Knows only who they aren't.
He takes the man, and his books,
And tucks them gently
In the safest shelf of his life.
He sees the man's valor;
The man has trust in his frailty
And their broken edges fit.
There is safety in unwanted things.
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no subject
Date: 2006-08-15 05:12 pm (UTC)Wow - I don't know much about poetry, but this is amazing - especially the third stanza/part. Perfect Snarry. <3
Standing behind the bigger boy, even
His shadow is second-hand:
A flat, grey ghost under a
Tantrum thundercloud.
I adore that image. Oh, poor Harry. ^_^
no subject
Date: 2006-08-15 06:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-21 02:49 pm (UTC)Just wanted to say that this is a lovely poem and I hope you get back to writing more. It's very solid well outside of HP. I enjoy the fandom inspiration as well of course, but it's more of a bonus to the background in the piece for me. A solid poem works no matter the spark that began it.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-22 05:58 am (UTC)And, hm, I just realized I posted this poem a little under 6 years ago. Times flies!