I suppose I’ve been playing a little too much Twilight Princess. I had a dream in which Midna, the secondary main character, passed on her eerie Twilit lines to me. They inhabited my skin, at first a pale orange, but as the day flew by they became blue. Odd things followed me because of these marks on my skin, but they never went away. I was feeling a little down tonight, so I wrote a poem to console myself. It deals with these lines, how they came unexpectedly, how I loathed them. Midna makes no appearance, but the marks are cursed as I assume in the dream. In the poem they are "religious" and "holy." The poem has no rhyme scheme, truly. I tried to stick to one, a very nice rhyme scheme, but it was skewed. It’s a little more composed than some other poems I have, though.

Perhaps one day I will write the story I had with Midna in the dream. It’s an interesting dream. I don’t quite remember it all – I remember seeing the marks on my stomach, seeing them glow bright blue. I don’t remember much of Midna. Perhaps I was being cursed, but it was a peaceful dream. I walked around freely in the night with these glowing marks. It was like having an odd power – I could see quite easily in the dark. Perhaps that’s one effect of the Twilight.

     I looked to me one solemn night
And saw my skin a-shivering
But what I did not know was right
And inside me was a-living
Those wretched lines, those thoughtless lines
Just waiting for the morrow
To peek their heads up atop my skin
Grieving for the morrow
O, why must there be tomorrow!
For silken skin and orange lines
Do not well mix together.
But their intercourse is well enough
That might go on forever
     And suddenly the lines doth change
From pale orange to bright blue
More intricate are their designs
A quite simplistic religious shrine
     They make their way across my arms,
My shoulders and my fingers
And on my chest they also rest
And on my legs they linger.
     These intricate and blue designs
From whence orange did they come,
Do signify mysterious yet true
Of my fate,
My wretched fate,
As wretched as these lines, designs
Upon my skin do rest.
And till the day they ‘cede once more
My life is changed, not for best
But for worse, these sacred marks
These holy marks are not of true religion
Their brilliant glow, pale and blue
Describes something wish’d weren’t true
And yet on me they still reside
Unchanging as I leave ‘em
At locations far from my abide
And close as I may bring them.
     Perhaps they’ll be and never leave,
For this I do not worry.
But for the distraction they so impose
And in my grave I do suppose
These marks will last until I die,
Unmoving and relentless
And as for I, I will subside
Into my grave,
My peaceful grave,
My shaken grave, with these marks by my side.