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Title: For Filemon, From Aniceto
Author: Khaireddin (DW) / Khaireddin (LJ)
Rating: PG
Pairing(s): none
Warning(s): poem-fic, h but no c at present, angsty frame of mind, suicidal contemplation, not written as slash (but your glasses are your own choice!)
Length: 414 words
Disclaimer : Sherlock BBC characters are owned by ACD & Moftiss.  No infringement implied, nor profit made.
Summary: This time the note is on paper, but that doesn't make it any easier to read or understand.


Authors Note : Well, this is a surprise! Poem fic - my least favourite form of story telling, and I've committed it.

Sorry, I have no idea how to summarise this creation. So I'll explain - I have a potentially quite long, post-Reichenbach, angst-ridden, h/c Sherlock (BBC) fic sitting vaguely outlined on the hard drive. As part of that story, Sherlock's forced himself to write down various things that are going through his head and his unexpected heart. For reasons that will become apparent if the story actually sees the light of day, some of his writing comes out in the form of poetry (yeah, surprised me too!).

All punctuation is intended as shown. Tense changes / style changes are intended.



So here is what he writes...for someone who shall currently be known as Filemon.





To Filemon, from Aniceto -

My thoughts to thee
Fly as a hawk
That dives from high
Upon a lark;
And catch it up
In talons tight,
Will ne'er release
Though it may fight.

My thoughts turn in -
It is not safe
That I may dwell
Upon your face.
So I must shun
All I hold dear,
Tho' distance does
Not stop the fear.

I keep you safe
by death secured;
Your life sustained,
My heart inured -
To all I did,
And all I do,
And all I left,
For all of you.

My palace was
a grand affair,
With many rooms
and many stairs.
Now-redundant
facts in hoards,
lined the shelves,
stuffed the cupboards.

But in amongst
the sterile construct -
places much more
personal were tucked.
A hall for him,
A floor for her,
And one whole wing
for brother dear.

And near the centre,
Close the heart
of my mind map -
the dearest part -
There lay a court
yard, quite serene,
in Afghan browns
and English greens.
In this calm place,
with him I'd find,
some solace from
the Left Behind.

But I cannot
Return to that
which once was mine
and now is not.
The world has turned,
And I have done
What was required
for everyone.
I cannot mourn,
I have not wept,
When everyone
Is safely kept.

But now my thoughts
Will not be calm,
Not even through
his ghostly charm.
And so I will
remove each stone,
each aching fact
that leads me home.

And then I close
and lock each door;
the keys lie scattered
on the floor.
I have no mind
to where they fall;
I will not need them
now at all.


(After)


No mem'ry left
Of missing names;
There are only
pale, faded stains.
Where once I know
I had a life,
Remorseless
emptiness is rife.
This transport feels
a gaping hole
Tho' I know not
what's lost or stole.

Now all I was
is gone from me,
there is no need
to stay, to be.
I will not try
to find the peace
I sorely need.
I'll simply cease.


Filemon - who'er you are -
I think I once was friend to thee.
I cannot find the meanings writ
herein, the words are lost to me.

So if by chance
you recognise
yourself within
these pitiful lines,
I ask forgiveness
for any hurt
my unknown actions
may have wrought.
And if you care,
My last request :
Forget, move on;
I am at rest.





~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I sincerely hope that this bears no resemblance to any other poems (Sherlock related or otherwise). But if there is anything that can be ascribed to sources other than my mediocre brain cells, I apologise as it was not my intent to rip off anyone else!


Feedback always welcomed.


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