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September 28, 2009
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She says; “I can still the motion forever, in a moment,
The tireless, and careless carousing of the clock
Who’s hands do trace their gluttonous way
Across the timeless, tempestuous, graceful face
Of my brave and valiant Grandfather Death.
For I'm his favorite Grand-Daughter; mortals call me Age;”

Who’s once-maiden-mouth, now ornery with age
Purses her lips, and then says; “I guard the secret of what is meant
Behind Grandfather’s talk of veils and vestiges of death.”
See, now…how she gestures towards the ticking clock;
Each passing hand leaves a line upon your face
In her you may find hope, or choose to tread the other way:

Not towards the beacon light, but the path that points away
From life bitter-sweet swelling into your golden age;
From watching your beauty become slowly defaced,
Until, unprepared, you reach that loathsome moment…
She is the priestess-queen of your ticking clock
Allow her, she leads you softly down to delicious Death.

“Come now,” she whispers, “and embrace this wise one Death
Come child of Eve, poor miscreation, you’ve lost your way,
Too long you have been victim and prey to whisper of my clock
Wish you really to be like me, grotesque and decrepit with age?”
And all but the strongest amongst you shall hesitate for a moment
Thinking of retaining, never straining, the beauty of your face.

But listen lightly, lest the power of her prowess efface
Your yearning for life and hence replace it with desire for Death.
You may cry “there is little to no value in a moment
If I am naught but a shell after She took my Beauty away
So I bow now, before her, and speak my resignation to Age.”
And so, again she wins, with the ploy of her Grandfather’s clock.

You will die young never to say Time time time is this what you meant
When you spoke your lament “What’s become of me?” in the face
Of her sinister sister who sweetly calls herself Age  
And her callous father who took your life into the bowels of Death
And all that’s gold no longer sparkles, all that shimmers fades away
As your life ends in fear of the ticking damage of the clock.
Sestina (fkn sestina's man... what a pain in the... ahem..)

Its for the Sestinaween contest.... I'm beginning to doubt its actual validity as a horror piece..... But its what came to me so I suppose I'll go with it....
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:iconeefera:
You have such a beautiful command of the language.
Excellent write, hun.
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:iconthetaoofchaos:
thetaoofchaos Sep 29, 2009  Hobbyist Writer
i think your sestina-self-torture my not have been entirely in vain. this was a thrilling word-coaster of imagery.
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:iconbrassteeth:
Dripping with universal symbols and a great word palette..!
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:icongirlwithahat:
GirlWithAHat Sep 29, 2009  Hobbyist Writer
Don't you need a tercet at the end?
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:iconultimateoutlaw:
Well look at that, I do. Curses and plagues.
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:icongirlwithahat:
GirlWithAHat Sep 29, 2009  Hobbyist Writer
:pat: I'm sure you'll find three more lines.
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:icondownwardssaint:
God, I loathe sestinas, and all their brethren. I think someone invented them just to drive poets mad.

I like this, though, quite a lot. They're a pain to write, but when done this well, they read brilliant.

Bit of editing advice, though: second stanza, first line, should be "Whose" not "Who's."
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:iconultimateoutlaw:
Word good call on that... Ill fix it tomorrow when I'm on a computer not a blackberry!
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:icondownwardssaint:
I do that all the time on dA... I'm normally a pretty good typist, but for some reason, I seem to make a lot more mistakes when I'm posting, here. And of course, it doesn't catch it, because it's spelled right... just the wrong word.
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