The judges have sat, drank vast amounts of alcohol, and eaten too many
sweets, and we have decided on the winners of the recent competition on
behalf of the Order of Scarlatti. The winning pieces are -
In first place - Beauty's Flaw: An Elegy for Lord Scarlatti written by
Bluef
and in second place
To the Lord of Song, as written by Nerodia
All the submitted pieces were beautiful, and we thank you for taking the
time to submit them. The winning pieces, as well as the other
submissions will be placed in a manuscript along with various other
written pieces based around our Lord, and placed on display somewhere in
the Temple of Art in Caer Witrin. Any interested parties should head
there to read them. I place here for your consumption the winning piece
by Bluef, the second is much longer and I do not wish to force too much
poetry onto you all in one sitting.
Thank you again for your submissions, we cherish every single one of
them.


In the service of Art
Katia Lokelinde Le'Murzen
His Dark Muse


Beauty's Flaw: An Elegy for Lord Scarlatti written by Bluef


Maybe He fell in love with illness,
the stoke of mortality upon Her cheek.
Discipline was His mantra,
but how do you gift away your heart
and hope to return to such obedience,
your inspiration falling away
like a cascading star. The burning heart
searing the soul: Suffering,
something They had in common
until She grew well again. He wandered
alone, His final gift withering in the icy space
where the emerald chakra lies. Three figures stand there
and I'm sure He looked upon them,
contemplated acceptance, the different forms
love can take. Lady Selene may have taught Him
the first step to loving another: Love yourself,
but in the shortcomings of Their betrothal
He saw Himself flawed, suddenly realized
the abstraction of love and forgot the music
dwelling in the heart and mind.
He turned to the hand, let passion swell
in His dance with working artists
until there was a lone luminary He focused on,
His eyes as blind as any classic statue
to anyone but her. Did she wonder why
love is like death, how similar it feels;
breathing quickened, then extinguished as hands meet?
Marriage is always a fall from grace:
Mortal urges sequestered, fluttering
impulses so similar to gilded wings
tinged green with age. Such faith rises like a phoenix
only to be turned to ash. Merik's love
poured out in long lines of curling script,
but what He liked was her mortal blemish,
the reflection of His first love in her eyes.

Penned by my hand on the 9th of Chronos, in the year 423 AF.