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one | "lament of a broken blade"
Oct. 24th, 2017 01:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
umuwhatsthis[ on the afternoon of the 24th, ink begins to appear on the network. first a dip, then a small blot of ink, and suddenly a title in black: ]
Lament of a Broken Blade
[ and then the words begin. they are endless, a single stream of thought from start to finish without any thought of editing or stopping. whoever this person is, they have an axe to grind. ]
Sing to me, O Muses, you daughters of Gaea,
Though I know not which will come.
Shall I call upon Calliope?
Or perhaps Clio?
Your words flow without voice,
Sung silently yet heard by many.
Sing, Muse, of tragedy and travesty,
Of a falsely-named champion and their touted glory.
The words, engraved in brass, weigh heavy on me.
A masterful screw, or so they have declared,
Not yet knowing what it means to gaze upon Venus,
Not yet having grasped the blushing buttocks of Bacchus,
Not yet laid down and held by the strong arms of Vulcan.
Would that only their idol were here,
Standing by this liar's plaque of brass.
Would that I had the strength to stand against them.
Would that my Master had summoned me into a war,
That I might reward such insolence as I saw fit.
But alas, this is no war,
And I am left with no mandate but to protect.
I will put down the pen with a sigh,
And retreat to my thoughts with regret.
[ the writing finally stops, the pen laid down against it. it seems its histrionic wielder has finished what it is they wished to say.
beneath it, an elegant and ornate signature appears in deep red: ]
Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus
Lament of a Broken Blade
[ and then the words begin. they are endless, a single stream of thought from start to finish without any thought of editing or stopping. whoever this person is, they have an axe to grind. ]
Sing to me, O Muses, you daughters of Gaea,
Though I know not which will come.
Shall I call upon Calliope?
Or perhaps Clio?
Your words flow without voice,
Sung silently yet heard by many.
Sing, Muse, of tragedy and travesty,
Of a falsely-named champion and their touted glory.
The words, engraved in brass, weigh heavy on me.
A masterful screw, or so they have declared,
Not yet knowing what it means to gaze upon Venus,
Not yet having grasped the blushing buttocks of Bacchus,
Not yet laid down and held by the strong arms of Vulcan.
Would that only their idol were here,
Standing by this liar's plaque of brass.
Would that I had the strength to stand against them.
Would that my Master had summoned me into a war,
That I might reward such insolence as I saw fit.
But alas, this is no war,
And I am left with no mandate but to protect.
I will put down the pen with a sigh,
And retreat to my thoughts with regret.
[ the writing finally stops, the pen laid down against it. it seems its histrionic wielder has finished what it is they wished to say.
beneath it, an elegant and ornate signature appears in deep red: ]
Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus
