Poems, Prayers and Promises (1/1)
I'll start off the drabble-a-thon with my take on the prompts Poems, Prayers and Promises. I hope you enjoy my rusty musings.
Poems
Thoughts of her would always be entwined with poems' imaginings. Sitting by firelight, the musk of leather and burnt pine mingling with the feel of dark ink raised on the faded page, her face would forever be the one Angel's mind's eye plucked to cover the canvas of the verse.
To him she would always be Keats' Psyche, the loveliest of all his faded goddesses, the one for whom his vow was too late. All he could be to her now was her oracle, her choir of praise and gardener of her Eden. He would be the builder of her temple and her last priest. The keeper of her name.
Cordelia.
Prayers
Scabby knees and a flailed back taught Angel early that praying did nothing more than leave wounds and scars. He lost faith hundreds of years ago in a God that could neither be seen nor touched. Prayers, he decided, were for fools in need of a savior too weak to save themselves.
Angel was not a fool.
But he was weak. And though he still would not pray to faceless spirits with no interest in the lives of mere mortals, he believed in miracles because he had been given one once. So he would bow his head and plead for a miracle from the source.
Kneeling on smooth knees, he brought her still hand to his lips and prayed. "Cordy, please save me."
Promises
The cruel thing about promises is that once they're broken they don't go away.
It's not like they're birds that stay perched on your clothesline until their beauty is either appreciated or you shoo them off where they disappear into the clouds.
Promises are stains that can't be bleached out of your memory or off of your soul. You think they're gone but each time you scent jasmine or look at that view she loved, like some evil homing pigeon they've marked you all over again.
They had both made promises. He promised in his heart that he would always keep her safe, and she promised to never leave him.
Both promises were broken.
Angel wanted to shoo them away into the clouds with her, but their stains were eating at the fibers of his soul and soon there would be nothing left but shreds.
Poems
Thoughts of her would always be entwined with poems' imaginings. Sitting by firelight, the musk of leather and burnt pine mingling with the feel of dark ink raised on the faded page, her face would forever be the one Angel's mind's eye plucked to cover the canvas of the verse.
To him she would always be Keats' Psyche, the loveliest of all his faded goddesses, the one for whom his vow was too late. All he could be to her now was her oracle, her choir of praise and gardener of her Eden. He would be the builder of her temple and her last priest. The keeper of her name.
Cordelia.
Prayers
Scabby knees and a flailed back taught Angel early that praying did nothing more than leave wounds and scars. He lost faith hundreds of years ago in a God that could neither be seen nor touched. Prayers, he decided, were for fools in need of a savior too weak to save themselves.
Angel was not a fool.
But he was weak. And though he still would not pray to faceless spirits with no interest in the lives of mere mortals, he believed in miracles because he had been given one once. So he would bow his head and plead for a miracle from the source.
Kneeling on smooth knees, he brought her still hand to his lips and prayed. "Cordy, please save me."
Promises
The cruel thing about promises is that once they're broken they don't go away.
It's not like they're birds that stay perched on your clothesline until their beauty is either appreciated or you shoo them off where they disappear into the clouds.
Promises are stains that can't be bleached out of your memory or off of your soul. You think they're gone but each time you scent jasmine or look at that view she loved, like some evil homing pigeon they've marked you all over again.
They had both made promises. He promised in his heart that he would always keep her safe, and she promised to never leave him.
Both promises were broken.
Angel wanted to shoo them away into the clouds with her, but their stains were eating at the fibers of his soul and soon there would be nothing left but shreds.