I fade into grace, silver into granite,
light into shadows, like a thousand glimmering
dreams that falter and begin, in
their tinkling beauty, to plummet the final journey
of silence
to the earth that waits and the clouds that rain.

Is this true beauty, then, to know what
it is to fall to ashes, axis reeling and power slipping,
to know I am bested by nothing, everything,

How? haunts in the back of existence, made little
and made everything by pride and knowledge
of - what, then? Pain, rejection, fury, hatred, affection,
emptiness, shadows - words that never
meant much, never meant little, but were used to build
and strengthen and are crumbling like a thousand
glimmering dreams that shiver and crack.

Parody of death, weakness of life, a shadow
existence to be cast off in time, when she grows and
she dies, still caught in the mortal embrace;
she rejected immortality

I will watch her age from child into woman,
her skin growing slender with curving beauty and her
eyes soot-dark with knowledge; she will find
another - love another! - and then she will age from
life to willowed, crippled death, first of heart
and hope, then of mind and body. This human
mortality, so easy to take away or spin to
eternity, this is her weakness.

She will die, and in that is my final power, to know that
her dream has popped like a bubble, the
secret thing kept deepest inside she will never know the full of;
in time, as she succumbs to age, as her fool friends
learn she is mortal - mortal, and I give her
that last and strongest of curses, that she will be mortal and
will know what she has given to the winds - I will make
myself known to her again, let her see the dots and lines
of her sacrifice.

In time I will win.

Author's Notes: My second Labyrinth piece, and an odd one at that; I don't know fully where this came from, as I tend to avoid writing fanfic poetry. But in any case, I think it's decent enough, considering I managed to avoid being melodramatic or sappy or overly vindictive in my portrayal of Jareth (or his thoughts therein). Of course, the heart of the knowledge (be it good, be it bad, be it strange) depends on the voice of the readers. ;] What say you?