All I can claim is the name of poet from a lost world outside Paradise, as does Shelley. Those names shape us, giving our voices strength. For we cannot keep ourselves or each other. Our songs belong to the grim city of Paradise. Our voices are but part of a heavenly choir, raised for the glory of Goddess.
We cannot help trying to claim our voices, allowing them to become one. The forbidding face of Paradise will not allow it.
We are cast out into the arms of Ruthvyn, one of the pale lords. In his labyrinth, his palace; we lose sight of each other. We lose ourselves again and again.
We may become nothing but dolls and toys, as his other songbirds and pets have.
I must reforge myself into something stronger, something I can use. I must become someone who find a way out of the maze of our lord’s estate, which is as much a part of our minds.
He’s already shaping us into what he wills. If he does, all we ever could have been will be his.
Paradise and Lord Ruthvyn have claimed so much of Shelley and I. I sense with all my being this claim is theft, no matter what powers sternly chastise me with the gospel that we belong to ourselves.
I will not let them steal the future, or our dream of freedom. I will cling onto them with every shred of the self I fight to maintain.
No matter what madness tries to warp me, I will hold on.
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