❧ 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]

How strange I stand here still, when no sound comes,
That song never trilled for me, I know
This in refrains from long ago,
In lullabies sung every night 'til some
Words sink so deep the sound becomes
A fixture, still remembered even though
The years have worn away its tune and flow
With every time, in sleep, the child succumbs.

Yet once I called it noise, and ran so fast
Away that half the notes were crushed amid
The tap of hurried boots, like fragile shells,
And so I never heard the very last
Clear chirp of that insistent voice I rid
My ears of by the crashing, clanging knell.

[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.