❧ first reverie

[histrionic]

I was never young, but he was born
A child as merry as a singing bird
That sings because it loves its song; absurd
As that once seemed to one like me, who'd sworn
To pursue strength and freedom til they'd worn
My thought and form away. Now a third
Of me remains, no more; I have no word
To speak that does not serve my goal or scorn

Someone. I wonder where the singing thrush
Has flown and where its song is sounding now?
I hear faint distant notes call out ahead.
Is it my brother? In my haste I rush
To meet him, but the music dies. I bow
my head, but I possess no tears to shed.


[[OOC: Kuja is composing sonnets in his head, because he can. And because he's dead (or believes he is), so what else does he have to do?]]

Comments

[toweroflearning]

[The effect of experiencing poetry instead of reading it out of a book is striking to Reeve. The appearance of the poet only adds to the effect.]

Ah, I'm not an authority on poetry by any means, but that's-- quite lovely. Sad, yes, but lovely too.

[histrionic]

[Flattering Kuja's poetry will get you everywhere.

Well, not everywhere, but it gets you on his good side.]

Perceptive, I see. I'm pleased you enjoyed it.

[He doesn't recognize this voice.]

And who are you?

[toweroflearning]

Thank you, I'm-- [What, a spy, a kidnapper, a bureaucrat? Sometimes he feels as if all the poetry in his life has left him.] Reeve. Reeve Tuesti.

And I did enjoy it, really. Particularly the part that read
I have no word
to speak that does not serve my goal or scorn

Just spoke to me, I suppose.
Are you a poet-- I'm sorry, I haven't asked your name.