❧ 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

[waterfell]

I was a soldier.