Deer in the Headlights

Thanks goes to Ina Branco for the inspiration.

Right to the lightless heart of night I drove:
Not to waste an instant have I had a right.
And as the road lead me through the grove,
A silhouette ahead have caught my sight

It was a doe I saw, young, tall and fair,
All clad in glamour, the forest's rose —
With eyes blinded by my headlight flare,
In tracks directly on my path she froze.

And so did very time then freeze as well,
It came to stand as if it was made to show
Me the glimpse of animal's dire awe in swell
One slice of moment before the blow.

The fawn was standing still, bereft of fear,
In bold acceptance with her tragic lot,
Emotionless, despite death approaching near,
It was not in motion she was caught.

Deer, said I, please make your leave,
You'll stay unscathed if you step away!
Speed's high: an impact won't let you live,
It is too late for car to change its way.

But nothing was my answer, just her eyes
Have closed to show that fate was sealed,
Like if our touch would her award some prize,
For that, the pain would not make her yield.

The time grew bored, reluctant it went on
Foreseenably the contact was brief indeed,
In fearsome maw of doom my doe was thrown,
The car had got nothing but a minor skid.

Involountary hangman, had I then to halt
And seek her out, yet maybe still alive?
My hurry whispered that suicide's not my fault,
I've shed a tear and kept on my drive.

You are my theme for a dream

And thus I have sinned. I fail to keep the distance. You are becoming less and less abstract with each passing hour. You, my beacon of fantasy, you the a priori unreachable dream. With trembling heart I am to witness illusion fuse with fact, the sanity vows for action while the feeling is left paralyzed. Patch by patch, the fairy fleshes, filling the perception gaps and correcting the wrong guesses.

Should I watch the muse succumb to the mortal coil, move on and paint another face on the banner of mine? May it be nobler in the mind if I let the word lose and let the vibrant feeling violently crush against subjectively unfortunate reality? Being a man is all about taking the risks and the responsibility, but how is it even remotely wise to charge headlong into the realm of certain impossibility where all slightest chances have long withered? Yet I dare. Yet I do dare to dream at night. I dream and sincerely I can't help it. Yes, I have sinned.

I will not allow myself backstabbing what little relationship we may still have for no reason. I'm mad, but I ain't no fool. Given a spare world, I just would love to have been in love with you, no matter what future holds for us.

Meet the Fox

See, I am not a wolf. I'm not a bear either, nor a tiger or a lion. What I prefer shadowy, stealthy action, where I am supposed to be is behind the curtains, only revealing myself for a brief and well planned strike before vanishing for good. I am not a front line warrior and fighting in melee with force and bloodlust has no charm over me. I am coldblooded and sly and that is the way I like myself to be. Until recently, my golden bet was a cat. Yet in a conversation with a friend it stroke that a cat brings an undesired trait on table: a cat is female.

A fox possesses all the qualities of a cat, but it is male. It's nible, it's subtle, it's cunning. It hunts with trickery and ambush rather than brutal force. Yet it is bereft of any feline feminism. It is a he. I have never been a sexist, but there certainly is some romantic appeal of two genders' existence. Different in a sense, but not comparatively different. No single one is inferior, neither one is superior. The two abstract images you can tell apart, equivalent, but not the same. Different flavours, not the abilities. I'm no longer shy about leaning to the cunning side whilst staying a male. I'm a fox.

The Name of the Dæmon

It's said that in order to defeat a dæmon, one has to weaken them by means of knowing their true name. The crafty sods often assume long names with scaring titles in an attempt to conceal their actual nature. Kerath the Unbreakable? Anatheira the Destroyer? Lirath of Helheim? Words carry the meaning, they create impressions, they build a false image of what would be a mere cat's bristling otherwise. Cut the name and you will free your perception of any infusion and misconception the fiend is trying to infest you with. Once trivialized, stripped of his deceiving verbal raiment, little more a dæmon is than a miserable quivering creature. Fetch a knife fast and offer it a swift journey through the wicked beast's throat for no carapace of fancy aliases will be there to prevent the bloodshed. Once an emotion can be named in full and correct qualification it immediately loses all of its holy immunity. You know what to do, right?

Now then, how am I called again?