I learned something. Poetry? Not my thing. This is a confusing mess. It was an assignment for Lit. class, we had to write a twenty line epic. Twenty lines. How long is this, you ask? 238 lines. And I forgot a Caesura. Whatever, I passed.

Regret-Me-Not

Stood atop smooth stone steps,

Watched by eyes, not there but

Real as the light from the moon's

Black face. Blood, red blood

Stained the clean flesh of his

Hands. Old blood, her blood.

"Aye blood. Her blood to stain

The flesh of your hands.

Will she forgive you now,

O thief of life? Will she

Still see the good of sin-stained hands?"

Voice, gentle in the silence,

Cruel against the quiet of his

Head, laughed with glee.

"No! For who can forgive he

Who sinned before the face of

The Almighty? Nothing for

You now but fire and brimstone

Await in the hereafter!"

The man upon the steps turned,

Examined the darkness surrounding.

"Come out, silver-tongued coward!

Step forward and give your name!"

His eyes shone defiance,

Voice commanding respect.

"Come forth and show your face!"

"What will that accomplish?

For your fate has already unwound

And is. Furthermore, I have

No face. I have no name, no soul.

Such filth only in mortal dwells.

Mortal, which I am not!"

The dark began to lift, in

The East, far in the east,

Where sky meet land,

A single band of light

Cast gold light upon the Earth

Starved of colour.

"Not mortal? A deity, then,

Master of evils and demon,

From some deep circle of Hell?"

The disembodied voice laughed

Once more, and the man on

The steps looked about the

Half-light, "Neither mortal

Nor deity, my forms abound.

I live in the Heart of

Mortal soul, plant seed of

Doubt and loath, and watch

It grow, ensnare! For that

Is all being's fate, to fall

At the darkness, clutching

The heart. And if it is fate,

Then it will happen! And

If not today, then the

Next day, or the one after, or

Any of the days that

Follow."

Time passed as the sun

Continued it's slow ascent,

Tendrils of colour piercing

The black, melting it to

Gray tinged blue. The

Man on the steps turned,

Face grim, eyes like stone,

Raking over the figure

That sidled up next

To him, arms cold as

Night around him

"I thought you had

No body, no flesh to

Call your own. Yet

Here you stand, with

A cold heart beating

In your breast."

The arm around pulled

Him close, chuckled in

His ear. "Can you feel

A heart, or assumptions

Did you make? For this

Dead flesh is not my

Own, and has no heart,

Nor pulse nor life."

Cold fingers twined with

His, placed upon his

Chest to feel no warmth

Or steady beat of pulsing

Life. "I told, I am not

Mortal filth, nor deity's

Power."

The man silent fell,

Glancing to take picture

Of this being, whose

Smile held sorrow, and eyes

Screamed with rage, whose

Shoulders sagged depression.

Cold fingers traced the

Flesh of his hands,

"Do you deserve to live

Wish sin? Yes, of

Course you do, for death

Is an escape you do not

Deserve. You were broken,

An Angel fallen from

Grace. But she fixed you,

Mended scarred tissue of

Your heart, and gave you

New life. And you repay

Your owed debt with

A knife through the chest.

You don't deserve life, nor

Do you deserve the comfort

Of death. You deserve your

Sins, and your doubts."

The sun glared down through

It's clouded mask, rays of

Gold on an existence famished

For colour and warmth.

"You ended not one, but two.

One who never felt the warmth

That rains upon you now, never

Saw the light of day. You

Should look in every child's

Eye and think 'How lucky

Was he, to have never

Known me, for if he

Knew me, he would be

Not here, like the life

That felt no warmth,

Eyes that saw no life."

The man sagged to his

Knees, hands clawing at

His ears. "Please, stop

Your talking! Your words,

So calm in tone, may

As well be poison

Tipped knives to

Pierce the very flesh!

Stop, I beg! Have

Mercy on an

Already tormented soul!"

Tears fell fast, hot down

His face, catching

Early morning's light

In drops so pure, yet

Tainted with sin and

Blood, dropping on

Smooth stone steps with

Nary a sound.

"Pathetic young warrior,

Strong only in

Appearance, shielded

By mail and shield.

You possess no strength

Or power to deal

With consequences of

Actions of your past.

Angels that fall from

Grace deserve no

Forgiveness, since those

That fall have shunned

The Almighty's power

Do you not think?"

Hands, blood stained

Hands slammed against

Smooth stone steps.

"Have you no mercy?

I beg of you, stop

This nonsense! Do

You think I know

Not what I have done?

An Angel fallen from

Grace deserves nary but

Isolation, so where is that?

Why are you here, to rip

Me apart with your words,

So calmly spoken?"

The words provoked

Laughter, high, cold

Laughter that rang

On and on and on

In the morning's

Silence, ringing in

His ears, reverberating

To his core.

"You are isolated, dear

angel. Can you not see? I am no mortal,

nor deity. I do not

Exist, for no one else

Can see me, not hear

Me, for I exist because

Your mind is too weak

To deal with emotions of

Such power, so it

Personified them into one

Being that will torment

You from now on until the day you die."

Gleeful hands stroked

Quivering feathers on his

Back, touch holding sorrow.

"They cannot see me, but they

Can see you, screaming at

The air. Now get up

Reclaim some sense

And show the world

Your tear stained face.

Show the world the face of

A broken sinner who them protects."

The man on the steps

Got to his feet, weary

And tired. His eyes

Slid shut and his voice

Rang softly in the

Light. "I regret not

What I have done, so

You must be mistaken.

I care not for mortal

Life, for mortals are

Fools governed by bigger

Fools and their own greed.

I will not beg forgiveness,

Nor pity will I seek. I

Merely seek the solace

Of isolation, to not

Protect, defend the weak."

Hand upon the hilt of

His sword, wings folded

At his back. "For the

Weak should not protect

The weak, and those

Who lack the skill

Should not try. I have

Tried, and that ended

In the destructions of

Not one, but two,

And the cursing of my name."

In case no one caught that, the protagonist is a fallen Angel that fell in love with a human, but she died while pregnant because he couldn't protect her. Anyone here know how to spell cliche? The Antagonist is the protagonist's personified emotions. Yay! Schizophrenia! I think ... I'm not well versed in mental disorders. Sorry, I shall end my little ramble session and be on my way now.

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