Poetry through the Seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
If we could watch life
ticking away in red
countdown numbers,
would we be content
knowing how many ticks
we have left?
Or would we rue each second,
too visibly aware
of how much is already lost?
Would fear overtake us,
gluing our feet to the very spot
on the floor where we stand
staring,
unable to live our lives,
unable to remove our gaze
from the numbers?
Or,
as they tick down
slowly,
one by one,
are we finally fearless,
having witnessed
the face of time?
Your eyes are clouds of medicated bliss,
mean and sparkling as you speak.
It hurts, I say.
Yes, you sneer, eyes bright like clear luster marbles.
The brutality leaves me stripped of my powers.
Like a baby, so soft, the words raise blisters on my skin.
Am I just a story you tell yourself?
I dream a man ties you up.
He hates mothers, having suffered much at their hands.
This vial is my betrayal,
a slow, steady poison passed down, mother to daughter.
Can’t you please leave me intact when you go,
one final suit of armor to protect me?
A glimpse of dull grey fear shadows your eyes,
and I soften.
I have no wish to fill your remaining time with torture.
Disease delivers enough of that.
Pain is real and I keep it close for comfort
as you lead me through the fog.
I follow because I know no other way.
I am your only child.
On fire
with hatred,
danger camps
on every doorstep.
They burn witches,
don’t they,
to cleanse the ills
of society?
Trouble stirred
into caldrons of chaos
while the accusers
hide under their beds.
Symbols tattooed
on the skin of the tortured
remind us
something’s always out there.
Can’t fear be teacher,
sewn from scraps of sorrow,
guiding us with knowledge
rather than arming us for battle?