It will be but a week by crazy_purple_hp_freak
Chapter Notes: Written for Arithmancy class final exam. This poem is in sestina form and the line I have never been so lonesome in my life before; is taken from the introduction to Stockholm Syndrome by Blink 182.
Many thanks to Elle (Sly Severus) for all her help! *huggles* And a big big thank you to Jenn (just_the_contrary) our lovely Prof for her fantastic course and awesome teaching and assignments! *hands over bunch of flowers and gift wrapped tiramisu*
...and onto the poem....
It will be but a week
He says, eyes bright with hope, it is but a week
And you will barely notice that I am gone;
What could possibly happen in seven days?
Nothing, surely, but dull grey hours watching in wait.
Seven days, a small trickle of waking minutes, before
My presence fills the space at your side in my return.
She stares into the grey; clouds do not return
Her burning gaze. It is past a week
And though he has been delayed before,
Unheard (unseen) voices whisper of the end. He is gone.
Yet still she sits, still in wait
Until the night grows cold and she has lost track of the days.
He too, was counting – there is only one day
Before peace, peace and I return,
Quiet, softly, safely, you no longer have to wait,
For tomorrow, it will be a week;
Seven days (one hundred and sixty eight hours), I have gone
And I have never been away from you for so long before.
He has grown sick (but accustomed) to the clamour before,
And the wails afterwards that echo for days,
Leaving blood-red stains in his memory (never, truly, gone).
And so he knows that he will always return –
Though preparing a corpse for burial may take weeks
And so he knows that still, she will have to wait.
Flashes of death-light obstruct his path, they do not wait
For stragglers, and he has seen this before -
You will not be home for weeks;
They will not find you for days;
pain – pain – PAIN, and then it fades. It does not return.
Eyes, bright, fade from hope. I am sorry – what will you do now that I’ve gone?
The hollow half of her heart remains and she knows, he is gone.
A week now, seems nothing to the time she must wait
(wait for death?) or for hope (that shimmers, a ray) to return?
I have never been so lonesome in my life before;
Six months since you last smiled; one hundred and eighty six days
Since you made that foolish promise – it will be but a week.
Tears from days past, dried from hollow, listless eyes, will never truly be gone.
And sunken hope wastes itself, drowning before, and after again, in a promise unreturned, unfulfilled;
It will be much longer than a week. Forever is much longer than a week – but still, she waits.