" Spring Day"

Written By: Presser

Pairings : 1x2x1

Disclaimer : Gundam Wing characters aren't mine

Rating : R

Warnings : Poetry, angst.

Spoilers: None

Feedback : Yes please!

"Spring Day"

High-flown words, high blown,
thrown into the air
like startled quails,
Singing, they’re singing
as they rise toward
dawn’s misty pink.

From the poet and the tunesmith they come,
high-flown, high-blown words,
singing toward the dawn.

They say:

Love is beautiful, wondrous,
marvelous, delicious.
They sing these words to the dawn.
Highest high and deepest deep,
width and breadth,
light upon light, rising toward the dawn.

On the earth I watch, listen.
Dawn responds, lacing
words and song with light,
lifting higher, ever higher,
above dawn’s rising head.

Dizzy, I am dizzy,
words of poets, songs of singers
racing through the sky.

I kneel, to the earth, the dark and rich-deep earth.

There the new grass,
there the cricket cricketing, chicketing
to the dawn, pink and misty.

I breathe soil,
I breathe loam,
I breathe the new grass
as the cricket crickets.

I cannot see the words,
the words above the sky,
dissolving with the dawn.

The song is there, though,
floating down, down, down,
floating back to earth.

I am on the earth,
my back against the grass,
sun warming, breeze cooling,
light and song descending.

I close my eyes.

Darkness.

Fast and deep it comes,
a strong tide,
sucking at my feet,
sucking.
Through the soil, through the loam,
deep and dark and down.

Roots and rocks and withered parts of plants.

Down and deep, dark and down.

Beneath the rock, beneath the stone,
a stultifying coldness
bakes my bones,
lunges through my blood.

A black hand reaches up.
It touches my back.
It scratches my spine.

I want it to pierce me,
want my blood, now thick and chill,
to run down it,
down the fingers of the black hand.

But only scratches.

Maddening.

My blood seethes, roils, boils,
a cold unfeeling bubbling.

I am disconnected.

Scratch. Seethe. Boil. Scratch.

I rage beneath the earth.
My blood boils cold.

My eardrums pop,
and blood runs out,
runs down my neck,
drips on the hand,
the black hand,
that scratches, scratches, scratches
at my spine.

My blood pours out,
drips down my neck.
I want to shiver, but cannot.

The scratching stops.

My sluggish heart holds still a moment,
then explodes in rage.

The cold -- it sears mee,
cauterizes in my ears,
and, somehow, in the soil, in the loam,
underneath the rock and stone,
I turn.

I turn and grip the hand.

It claws my face.
I crush its fingers.
I scream.

Non-words. Rage. Frantic, blind and stupid rage.
Down it goes.
through more rock, through more stone,
underneath the soil and loam,
down and dark and deep.

The hand unfurls its fingers.

Black, diseased and putrid nails
aim for my throat.

I scream non-words, present my throat,
beg the hand to come,
beg the rage, the cold, my blood,
to come and take me down.

Fury.

And then --

An arm around my waist.
It pulls me up.
It’s warm.

I’m shocked.
I pause.

My blood upon the hand below
sizzles in the cold.

The black hand’s putrid nails reach out,
clash against the stone,
reach for me, reach for me,
jab up through the soil.

The arm around my waist is strong.
It holds me.
It is warm.

Another arm comes round my waist.
These two arms pull me up.

I shove my two arms down through soil,
reaching for the hand.

These two arms round my waist,
they gently lift me,
through the soil, through the loam,
through the rock, through the stone,
they gently pull me up.

I feel a chest against my back.
I feel a heart beating.

Warm. Strong. Warm.

I cannot move, feel, breathe, think.

Warm.

Fear.

Strength.

Fear.

I’m pulled, violently, like an abscessed tooth
from the soil and rock and stone.

Free from the earth, I hang in air,
fall, knees to ground,
sputter, cough, vomit blood,
cold,
collapse.

I open my eyes.

I smell the grass pressed up against my face.

I am stiff, cold.

I put the heels of my hands beside my ribs,
and push.

My arms shake.
I tremble.

Again an arm around my waist,
strong, warm, strong, strong.

I turn my head, but sunlight blinds me.

Another arm, a voice:
Rest.

It’s light and clear.
It’s strong and warm.

Somehow I am on my back.
The grass is ticklish, sweet an pungent.
The sun is warm.
A slight breeze feathers my hair.

It occurs to me to connect the arms,
the warmth, the strength, the voice.

I open my eyes again.

Against a gold and purple sky,
a young man’s silhouette.

His flesh is gold.
His hair is muted tawny bronze,
stippled with the color of the soil.

His arms are thin.
(Were these the arms that pulled me from the earth?)

He hears me stir, and turns.
A glint of sun sparks blue-purple fire in his eyes.

He smiles.
“I thought I’d lost you.”

“Duo?”

He smiles.

From far above, I hear a flute:
a song descending from the sky,
a poet’s words not far behind.

They circle in the air.

The sunlight lowers ‘gainst the dark’ning clouds.

I look into my lover’s eyes,
and smile.

He reaches down, I reach up.

Dark’ning sunlight trickles down onto his hand,
the nails black,
and caked with my blood.

 

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