alexisjane (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alexisjane) wrote2014-06-09 03:13 pm
alexisjane) wrote2014-06-09 03:13 pm
Entry tags:
[POEM] The Grave
Title - The Grave
Pairing - Gen
Rating - PG
Disclaimer - These are my words but all my base are belong to Kripke, Sera, Ben or whoever so don't sue me. It's just for fun.
Word count - 570
Warnings - Spoiler to S9, self indulgent poetic nonsense, not cheerful but hopeful.
A/N - This was written for the Bi-Bro Challenge over at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_bunker, promoting harmony and understanding between SamGirls and DeanGirls during the difficult events of S9. This came out of a conversation that I had with someone (for the love of god, raise your hand, I couldn't have done this without you but I'm senile and can't remember anything) that basically went something like...
"...being buried inside the bunker isn't a good environment for our boys...maybe they'd sort out their differences better and quicker out on the open road without doors to shut each other out."
"Yes, I guess before it was all about them being shut in together, in the car, in motel rooms..but now they have the space to shut each other out, all those walls and doors. Not good."
A thousand hugs and all the cookies are owed to the ever wonderful![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fannishliss who takes my ugly words and forces them to make sense. Anything that is wrong with this is my doing. She's wonderful. Thank you so much, Hunny ♥
The Grave
They need to remember: remember words spoken
before the grave, once heartfelt, now forgotten . . .
~•~
He was raised twice.
But not all the way.
Once by fire: waking in the dark, running fast,
the gift in his arms, soul heavy, restless, relentless;
heavier now, he carries it in his heart.
Still no direction, just – “run! as fast as you can!” –
So he does, blindly, content with it, welcoming
the dark redemption of the infinite road in front of him.
The second time: waking in the dark, scrabbling,
he raises himself through the loam and detritus
toward the light which burns him. Half buried,
half born, half hoping that there would be no more,
and all for the other that struck, spat, sliced him.
And embraced him, the love somehow sharper then.
But buried in the ground once more, he is consumed,
bones and blood vessels twisted, unrecognizable.
He needs to remember The Word: the only thing that matters.
He needs to take his brother outside and run –
raise them both from this place of grave men and run –
and maybe they’ll find each other again.
~•~
He was buried twice.
But not all the way.
Once by love and care and fear: his keeper swaddling his body,
cloying like a shroud, clogging his throat, aspirating lore and law.
It embalms him, innocence syphoned, displaced by knowledge:
suffocating until he makes the choice to end that life.
The second time, love and care and fear: the morning star burns
bright, keeping him from dark oblivion. Not long enough,
arms raised in a vee, his brother’s blood on his fists,
the grace inside him screaming and clawing, his own grace evident,
serene, when he makes the choice, falls and keeps falling, content with it,
welcoming the dark redemption of the infinite time in front of him . . .
until he is dragged back. Half buried,
half born, half hoping that there would be no more.
Now buried in the ground, his keeper shackled to him,
force-fed like a starving man, tube in his throat, hand on his heart.
He needs to remember The Word: the only thing that matters.
To remember what Dad taught him: that they are family.
Leave this life, get out, get free and clear and go
and maybe they’ll find each other again . . .
~•~
On the road, they were moving, dark steel encasing them,
hard black beetle shell protecting the delicate flesh within,
black blinkers on a war horse, kept them focused, fearless,
as good as four walls to house them, boxing them up,
stored like precious objects or dangerous things, an archive, an arsenal
wrapped in tissue-thin membranes of love too delicate to acknowledge.
But the boys are dead and buried: fingertips pressed bloodless,
one to another’s, as the last thread between them frays,
barely touching, barely hanging on, barely there. But there.
They are floundering: the membrane ripped and bleeding
reveals the oubliette behind the velvet lining. Too many doors and walls
and unspeakable things separate them. They just need to see:
they need to look and see and leave the stifling trench,
asphyxiating the glow that lights them – it is being extinguished –
Earth has made them forget, like corpses long dead. They
are long dead, but still breathing, still burning. The ember gutters.
They need air. Away from the bone dust and lime:
oxygenate – run – heal the broken synapse. Remember.
Remember: what they are, who they are – and be brothers.
Pairing - Gen
Rating - PG
Disclaimer - These are my words but all my base are belong to Kripke, Sera, Ben or whoever so don't sue me. It's just for fun.
Word count - 570
Warnings - Spoiler to S9, self indulgent poetic nonsense, not cheerful but hopeful.
A/N - This was written for the Bi-Bro Challenge over at
spn_bunker, promoting harmony and understanding between SamGirls and DeanGirls during the difficult events of S9. This came out of a conversation that I had with someone (for the love of god, raise your hand, I couldn't have done this without you but I'm senile and can't remember anything) that basically went something like..."...being buried inside the bunker isn't a good environment for our boys...maybe they'd sort out their differences better and quicker out on the open road without doors to shut each other out."
"Yes, I guess before it was all about them being shut in together, in the car, in motel rooms..but now they have the space to shut each other out, all those walls and doors. Not good."
A thousand hugs and all the cookies are owed to the ever wonderful
fannishliss who takes my ugly words and forces them to make sense. Anything that is wrong with this is my doing. She's wonderful. Thank you so much, Hunny ♥The Grave
They need to remember: remember words spoken
before the grave, once heartfelt, now forgotten . . .
~•~
He was raised twice.
But not all the way.
Once by fire: waking in the dark, running fast,
the gift in his arms, soul heavy, restless, relentless;
heavier now, he carries it in his heart.
Still no direction, just – “run! as fast as you can!” –
So he does, blindly, content with it, welcoming
the dark redemption of the infinite road in front of him.
The second time: waking in the dark, scrabbling,
he raises himself through the loam and detritus
toward the light which burns him. Half buried,
half born, half hoping that there would be no more,
and all for the other that struck, spat, sliced him.
And embraced him, the love somehow sharper then.
But buried in the ground once more, he is consumed,
bones and blood vessels twisted, unrecognizable.
He needs to remember The Word: the only thing that matters.
He needs to take his brother outside and run –
raise them both from this place of grave men and run –
and maybe they’ll find each other again.
~•~
He was buried twice.
But not all the way.
Once by love and care and fear: his keeper swaddling his body,
cloying like a shroud, clogging his throat, aspirating lore and law.
It embalms him, innocence syphoned, displaced by knowledge:
suffocating until he makes the choice to end that life.
The second time, love and care and fear: the morning star burns
bright, keeping him from dark oblivion. Not long enough,
arms raised in a vee, his brother’s blood on his fists,
the grace inside him screaming and clawing, his own grace evident,
serene, when he makes the choice, falls and keeps falling, content with it,
welcoming the dark redemption of the infinite time in front of him . . .
until he is dragged back. Half buried,
half born, half hoping that there would be no more.
Now buried in the ground, his keeper shackled to him,
force-fed like a starving man, tube in his throat, hand on his heart.
He needs to remember The Word: the only thing that matters.
To remember what Dad taught him: that they are family.
Leave this life, get out, get free and clear and go
and maybe they’ll find each other again . . .
~•~
On the road, they were moving, dark steel encasing them,
hard black beetle shell protecting the delicate flesh within,
black blinkers on a war horse, kept them focused, fearless,
as good as four walls to house them, boxing them up,
stored like precious objects or dangerous things, an archive, an arsenal
wrapped in tissue-thin membranes of love too delicate to acknowledge.
But the boys are dead and buried: fingertips pressed bloodless,
one to another’s, as the last thread between them frays,
barely touching, barely hanging on, barely there. But there.
They are floundering: the membrane ripped and bleeding
reveals the oubliette behind the velvet lining. Too many doors and walls
and unspeakable things separate them. They just need to see:
they need to look and see and leave the stifling trench,
asphyxiating the glow that lights them – it is being extinguished –
Earth has made them forget, like corpses long dead. They
are long dead, but still breathing, still burning. The ember gutters.
They need air. Away from the bone dust and lime:
oxygenate – run – heal the broken synapse. Remember.
Remember: what they are, who they are – and be brothers.
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Thank you for this beauty.
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WOW.
AWESOME job. I used to write poetry very seriously, and just last night I told roomie that publishing poetry was no longer a goal of mine, but this makes me feel like maybe I was wrong-- like I need to get back to writing and reading it. So thanks for that. You are awesome. <3
Re: WOW.
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'On the road, they were moving, dark steel encasing them,
hard black beetle shell protecting the delicate flesh within,'
....especially after reading tifaching's wonderful 'Precious Cargo', I'm feeling so much love for Dean's Baby right now!
I loved this, I hope you'll be inspired to do more poetry.
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It's the final criterion of 'poem', for me, that walking to the beat of it while the images fall down around me, the sound of it encasing me in its world for that little time.
Really nice work.
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A wonderful bi-bro poem, and a great poetic exploration of their perilous dance with death and estrangement.
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Heartbreaking but the last line gives hope for the future.
Wonderful, darlin', just wonderful.
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First of all, I have to admit, this wasn't an easy read for me, because of the language, so I had to read it veeeery slowly. But damn, it was heartbreaking, a little depressing even, in my opinion. Like all the fights they had to endure, mostly for each other. But the last line gave hope.
I liked it :)
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"Half buried, half born, half hoping that there would be no more"
This was so beautiful and heartbreaking.
I like what you said about them being in the bunker surrounded by all these rooms and walls lets them shut each other out so badly, and you expressed it so beautifully.
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Earth has made them forget, like corpses long dead. They
are long dead, but still breathing, still burning. The ember gutters.
They need air. Away from the bone dust and lime:
oxygenate – run – heal the broken synapse. Remember.
Remember: what they are, who they are – and be brothers.
And the inclusion of lime, as a sensory object as well as an aural one, is really stand-out. A beautiful tribute, bb. <33333