I ran across some random saved snippets of writing, today. And I found one, in particular, that was hovering somewhere between poetry and prose, not fit into any particular format but simply standing as a study in the rhythm of words.
I can only barely remember writing it, but I can tell that I had fun.
And so I cleaned it up, lilted it to myself out loud ’til I had found the proper shapes of the wordflows and lines, and now I am tucking it here to keep myself from forgetting it again:
he doesn’t go sailing, for fear of the winds;
there’s an eye and a storm and a pupil within.
there are leviathans, lurking down in the deep,
& he knows it’s a game of the company you keep.
he hates the boards’ shudder, beneath his bare feet,
& misses the dizziness of winding through streets.
the sea’s an amalgam, is too much of the same,
and he dislikes locations that haven’t a name.
he distrusts the skies, their pretty pictures in stars,
& puts far less than faith in all their elaborate lies.
(a hunter, a bear, they’ll both fall sans cares –)
yet the roads are a surety, the only safety he knows
& it is these starkly twisting ways in which he will go.
he likes forwards and backs, not middles or ‘tweens,
& roaddust has something the sea salt just lacks.
(he doesn’t trust promises that state they are pure,
& he would rather stay dirty just to try and endure.)
(Also, for the record, while I can barely remember its creation, I can tell from the taste of it that it centres around my most dominant character-muse. And it should, I think, serve as a fitting first introduction to him — yet another reason why I include it here. He doesn’t like the quiet, this one. ♥)