Mist Svanhvit

I miss it.
I miss you.
But I never knew,
did I?

Never knew your soft feathers.
They tell me you're not real,
and I can see why they'd think it;
nature hides itself well after all.
I never knew you're blonde hair,
marble skin,
blue eyes.

Your eyes were the Mist
and your skin was Svanhvit
white as the swan wings
that graced your back.

The Valkyrie spear...
I remember the tales;
thrust through the temple
piercing the damned.
The blood gushed and splattered
but never stained,
never stained anything
but your clothes and your cane;
blemishing the dreamcatcher
dangling to the side.

Your wings remained Svanhvit always.

As you lay in the star,
having gone to far to save a friend,
heartsblood spilling into the grooves
carved into the floor,
your own spear
erect in your chest,
I lay crying, alone once more.

Why did you try to save the dead?
Why didn't you run from the gunshots?
Why did you allow
for your wings to be tarnished?

The floor was not meant for a goddess.
The star was not meant for a swan.

Your flock overtook my river
when my grandmother died,
and again when my best friend
met the same fate.
My uncle as well,
and even my cockatiel, Hedwig,
never again to sing me songs.

Your flock was a sign of your love for me.
They were your pencil, the river your ink;
surely as I created the Svanhvit from carbon,
your love was written with only an ink well,
and a Svanhvit feather.

-Mine