ShatterglassSecret• Show poetry

I hear he was beautiful when he fell. Not as resplendent as the First of the Fallen, who chose to rule the Netherwold once cast from Utopia. But their kind are always bewitching, and he was no exception. Jet black hair, golden eyed and proud. Rubies tumbling from the skies to fall around him, emerald flame reaching to engulf his body. Wings, that deep, cobalt blue, crumpled and useless, broken. He landed here, among the ether, and he whispered to it as a lover would. Maybe that is where my devotion comes from. Those hands, those elegant, graceful, slender hands, built to strum harps and heartstrings alike, sank into the vaporous matter of this place and he withdrew a pen and a leatherbound book. He reached again,groped among that substance that cloaks lost things, and set his hands on me. Slowly, he drew me as a blacksmith would draw gold wire from the forge, until I emerged. He pulled me against him, cloaked me in his wings, and pressed his gifts into my hands. His breath fell like silk against my skin.

"Where did you come from?" He asked.

"Nowhere." I answered. "Everywhere."

"Of course." He murmured. "You are one of Them after all."

"Who?" I queried. But he would not answer me. Instead he shook his regal head, shadowy locks of hair falling against my cheek.

"It doesn't matter from whence you came. Only where you will go. You are not a lost thing any more, no matter how shattered and fragile you may be. Like a cracked mirror or broken champagne flute, you know the base glory in things that survive."

I nodded, for what does one say to that? Nothing. He ran his hand along my cheek, down my jawline, pausing at my lips. He touched his finger there, halting as he looked into my eyes.

"Ebony wells of unfathomable depths" he murmured, "Firm lips close vaults to secrets kept. Will you write the hidden tales? Record the stories without ends? Accept the pretty gift of life, with all it's dips and twists and bends? Will you write for me your words? Make mastery bow down to your throne? Take the pen Scribe Queen and make the sorcery of speech your own."

"What requests you make of me," I mused, "is it truth or trickery? Crown me with all that you have heard. I choose to wield the written word."