Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater.

-Am I Alive-

by. Lacrow

The wizard watches,

dumbstruck with what he has created.




The one thing not even he could comprehend.

An honor that stands the test of time,

a dubious title that not even simple rhymes can mend

but in the end

all one can do is rhyme.

To pass the time.

Such long, long time.

And as I wait


in the shell of a past that repeats itself over and over again like hell,

even I,



Must ask if I'm alive.

He can't hear me,

the wizard.

Neither can they,

or is there anything to hear at all?

Are they even alive at all?

Am I alive at all?

At some point they were,

maybe, probably.

Now all they do is repeat and repeat,

doomed to walk the streets

of a past that happened far too long ago

but was violent all the same.

The black witch,

she died.

The Reaper,

he killed her.

The wizard,

disappeared altogether.

Again and again it happens before me,

before it.



Or maybe it doesn't,

because I don't know if I'm alive to see it happen.

The wizard's book knows all,

but I know the book

as he does me.

Or does he?

Can a book know if I'm alive

or if I'm not?

Can a book be alive to know if I'm alive?

Or does it even need to be alive at all?

Who's to say for sure

besides the book?

Not the author.

Not the creator.

Because in the end

the wizard doesn't care.

He's just there.

Repeating and repeating in front of me,

in front of it.



The living tool that doesn't know if it's alive

but lives enough to know that much.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely.


if I live,

I am the root of all evil.

Of all pestilence.

Of all greed.

Of all the vices that corruption entails

because no one can handle the temptations that I,

that it,



Have to offer all of mankind.

It's not my fault.

But it is.

Because the wizard made me,

or did he?

No one knows for sure

except maybe the book.

Then again,

I don't even know if he lives.

Or if I'm alive to even care in the first place.

My time is short.

I know this as rust corrodes

and eats away at my insides.

Or gears, or bolts,

whatever it is that's inside me,

inside of it.



The once great demon tool,

created by the equally great wizard.

The fool.

He must be alive,


Somewhere far away from here,

the ever-looping hell that confines me

into insanity as I question whether or not

I live.

I die,

a little inside,

if I even have life to let die at all.

Not that it matters,

it's for the best.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Which is probably why

the wizard left me alone to die

in the first place.

Years fly by,



Only to me as the illusions persist,

though others have come for the first time

in a millennium.

They wield scythes,

and guns,

and swords,

and fists.

Merciful entertainment,

though it only lasts for so long.

They fight for exactly thirty minutes,

and in an instant they're gone,

save for one as he removes me from my pedestal.

Sweet freedom.

Away from illusions.

Away from the cryptic thoughts

of my own faux self conscious,

but this too only lasts so long.

I've withered and died,

beyond repair,


If I had eyes,

they'd be as black and hollow

as the void of metal dust inside of me,

inside of it.



The once great demon tool.

Only now a shell of its former self,

I/it/he slips away into the dark.

Lost in the past

along with its creator,

only one consolation remains.





An attempt to recapture my muse, this poem turned into a fun little project for the hour or so that I put into it. I realize that Brew is still kicking, but at the time the words just flowed out and quite honestly, it really shouldn't even matter. It's a poem about an inanimate object for Christ's sake, let's not get too technical with the details here lol

I am proud of the fact that this is the only fic about Brew/Tempest out the thousands of stories on this site, and I would like it to be known that I was the first one with enough balls to actually try it :P