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snivellum:
Had I a man’s fair form, then might the force
Be carried swiftly through these hallowed stars
To break upon your wretched heart; ‘tis ours
A passion battled for along this course;
But ah! I am no knight born in remorse;
My blood runs poisoned, darkened from my scars;
I am no happy servant to which mars,
Disorders your endeavours to enforce.
Yet still I fall below thee—and I yearn,
To slip beyond control which us alike
Is gripp’d by shadows clashing, tearing through.
Ah! I will taste the light of which you burn;
When flames upon your pallid face doth strike,
I’ll follow in that fleeting death to you.
It’s now my headcanon that Hux re-writes Keats to express his sexual frustration angst. (My re-write of “Had I a Fair Man’s Form” which I think is about Keats being ugly?? but here is just a power thing)
star-destroyer-supremacy:
Hux is such a Victorian man I can’t even handle it. Look at him, he’s such a bitch. He’s a twink British imperial, he’d fit in perfectly. He’s so pasty and sickly, yet so beautiful. He’s practically dying of consumption as we speak. Don’t get a doctor, just someone write a poem about him in the style of Keats.
snivellum:
Had I a man’s fair form, then might the force
Be carried swiftly through these hallowed stars
To break upon your wretched heart; ‘tis ours
A passion battled for along this course;
But ah! I am no knight born in remorse;
My blood runs poisoned, darkened from my scars;
I am no happy servant to which mars,
Disorders your endeavours to enforce.
Yet still I fall below thee—and I yearn,
To slip beyond control which us alike
Is gripp’d by shadows clashing, tearing through.
Ah! I will taste the light of which you burn;
When flames upon your pallid face doth strike,
I’ll follow in that fleeting death to you.
It’s now my headcanon that Hux re-writes Keats to express his sexual frustration angst. (My re-write of “Had I a Fair Man’s Form” which I think is about Keats being ugly?? but here is just a power thing)
star-destroyer-supremacy:
Hux is such a Victorian man I can’t even handle it. Look at him, he’s such a bitch. He’s a twink British imperial, he’d fit in perfectly. He’s so pasty and sickly, yet so beautiful. He’s practically dying of consumption as we speak. Don’t get a doctor, just someone write a poem about him in the style of Keats.
