The Wasteland

by Gabriel LaVedier

Rating: teen
Tags: Dark, Alternate Universe, Sad, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Tragedy, Gore
Length: 1111

Better a happy banality than exciting sorrow.

A poem, written by Sir Crescent Sliver, from an alternate universe that should never have existed.

The Wastes destroy all they touch. Hope, hearts, happiness, health. A sorrowful scholar from a time before gathers the fragments of intellectual sorrow and assembles them into a patched-together monster of a poem. As disjointed as the polluted wastes, as scarred and broken as the landscape of fallen and tumbled out madness and hopelessness. Pain and agony, ultimately, for nothing.

(Three things: Yes, if you think it's a reference to that, you're right. Why? I don't know. Some folk are cruel. Second, yes, "Twin Peaks" reference. It's a good bit of verse. Also, no. My favorite is actually "The Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock.")

Published 2012-01-03 15:16:33 UTC
Last updated 2012-01-03 15:16:33 UTC

The Wasteland

Dedicated to those who died, the fortunate; and those who lived, the cursed. For somepony's selfish madness, living and dead paid a price they never knew.

Introduction- The Invocation

By all the monuments gone,
By all the dead that once sported,
By all the hours stretching long,
By all the feelings we have sorted,
By Celestia the Light of Life
The Beloved Hope and Beauty Fire;
By Luna, too, lost in pointless strife,
Diarchs, specters, hear my desire:
Move the quill to say what I must,
Do not betray a humble pony’s trust

Part One- The Fire-Trot

It was a curtain.
But it was not a curtain.
It was a wave.
But it was not a wave.
It was foolishness.
But it was not folly.
It was ignorance.
But it was not stupidity.
It was madness.
It was.

Through the darkness. Future.

No pony chose to die.
Ponies died.
No pony chose to starve.
Ponies starved.
No pony chose to be sick.
Ponies were sickened.
No pony chose.
The choice was made for them.

Through the Darkness. Future. Past.

Ponies scream.
No pony answers.
Ponies groan.
No pony helps.
Ponies sob.
No pony comforts.
Ponies rage.
No pony takes responsibility.
Ponies whisper.
The echoes mock (1) their words.

Through the darkness. Future. Past. See.

Ruins rise
Repairs are sparse.
Plague stalks
Doctors are sparse.
Hunger gnaws
Food is sparse.
Light wanes
Hope is sparse.
Monsters swarm
Ponies make themselves monsters in the name of the waste.

Through the darkness. One cry. Two worlds.

The light of the old world
The light of the new world

Future. Past. See.
The bright glow of the old world
The bright glow of the new world

Future. Past.
The bridge at the end of the old world
The bridge at the start of the new world

Future
The unity of old and new.
The link of old and new.

[. . .] (2)
Binding the old world to the new.
The light of annihilating fire.

Fire-Trot with me

Part Two- The Empty

I met three ponies;
In faceless masks they trotted.
“Who are you?” I asked

“Pain.”

“Sorrow.”

“Faddishness.”
“Did you destroy the world?”

Pain bowed.

Sorrow danced.

Faddishness did both.
“Why did you do this?”

Pain: For Suffering

Sorrow: For anguish

Faddishness: I was following orders
“What do you gain from the waste?”

Pain showed me blood

Sorrow showed me tears

Faddishness showed me a tangled, useless gun
“Do you feel at all?”

Pain was silent.

Sorrow was silent.

Faddishness asked, “What is feeling?”
Behind the three I saw a monster;
A twisted shadow masked as a pony.
“Who are you?” I asked it.

“I am hope. I am beautiful.

“I am only born of fire.

“I am the child of death.

“I am the reason in slaughter.

“More should die:

“When Not-Me (3) suffers

“I am glorious.”
I hated it most of all.

Part Three- The Foal

A foal was born with blue eyes.
A foal was born with white fur.
A foal was born with a red mane.
A foal was born in the waste.
A foal was born dead.

We buried her in the waste.

Part Four- The Toys

I came upon a doll, dressed in tattered rags.
She was beautiful once,
With a tiara and horseshoes,
And more dresses and a filly to love her.

I met a mare, dead-eyed and empty-faced.

She had been a hydrological engineer once

With a Stalliongrad degree and a good job

And a filly to love

I came upon a toy train, dented and dull.
It ran once, upon a tiny track
Through tiny towns with tiny passengers;
Tiny hooves once made it run

I met a stallion, staring at the sky

He used to carry papers; he used to carry briefs (4)

He used to hold books; he used to hold cases.

He used to hold tiny hooves

I came upon a toy guardspony.
He was dressed in golden armor.
His helmet plume was magnificent.
He guarded his toy princess with all his toy life

I met a pathetic figure

Dressed in tatters, robbed of dignity

He had no Princess to protect.

I broke the mirror.

Part Five- The Vision

Canterlot glowed white in the morning
Gold sparkled and gems shone along the ledges.
Ponies smiled. “How are you faring?”
No darkness bled over the edges.
The palace was a grand affair
And the occupants truly stunning;
At a golden sun one could not help but stare
And at a command come running.
We were happy then, and pleased,
Life was a lark and filled with light,
Every moment was strongly squeezed
To extract the last of all things bright.
I met the moon shadow, the exile, the shame,
A presence that came and left like the wind.
One momentary look: We were the same
To one great mare each would bend.
At dawn, the glow in black cloak and white mane;
At dusk, the kind words of a caramel rake;
Daylight saw oiled locks (5) and blood surging in veins;
Nighttime concealed a shadow-show, thirst to slake.
At the mountain far I heard a monster scream;
In my prison I could only sit and stay;
I hoped when I emerged it had been a dream—
The foolishness took my hope away.

“Is feeling like exploring the waste

“And killing a pony for their scraps?”

Faddishness showed me his scrap gun.

I buried him in the waste.

Part Six- The Song of the Ponies

Time has made out world so small
Upon our hungry bellies crawl.
None of us will soon be fed
We have no apples, have no bread.
We have water bitter made
By tears we shed beneath the shade.
Our children cry and families weep
There is no comfort in wake or sleep.
Nightmares haunt in bright of day:
Gangs steal food and lives away.
We found a world we cannot stand
Our souls were sold to the demon BRand. (6)

Part Seven- The Future

[There is no future]

Notes

1: In both the sense of “copy” as well as “insult”.
2: This can be best imagined as the sound of a newborn foal drawing its first breath combined with an old pony breathing their last.
3: This can be understood as all others aside from the self; or, perhaps, as all beings not the masked monster.
4: Briefs, in this sense, are legal papers outlining a lawyer’s case before trial.
5: 1) Slicked and conditioned mane hair; 2) Oiled and properly maintained door locks, often used in classical literature as a sly reference to illicit interactions.
6: Take this specific formulation as it will be taken.