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| Friday, June 10, 2011 08:26 PM |
| (Last updated on Friday, June 10, 2011 08:28 PM) | | I wrote this thing |
 by Fëanor |
One of the things I admired most about Sarcasmo was her fearless determination to do and to be. If there was something she thought would be fun or exciting or fulfilling, she just went ahead and did it. Write a novel in a month? Sure! Try out for a role in a zombie movie? Absolutely!
I've been meaning to try my hand at poetry again for a while. Specifically, I've been wanting to write a sonnet. Today I thought, if I want to do it, why don't I do it? So I got home from work and I wrote this. I might tinker with it some more, but it's what I have for now. Thanks, Star. Happy birthday.
—
A framework; door. A lintel; sill. A breath
withheld. A liminality. A thrush
about to beat its wings. A border etched
with symbols. Threshold. Intake. Gently brush
a finger down a page's edge. A book
when read will write in you. Beware. Hold still.
A storm's about to blow. A knife. A crook-
ed line is drawn before the cast. The hill
reveals a mouth. A man is walking there.
He's sure he knows this place quite well. Or not.
He thinks he's almost found the fairy's lair.
A broken thing was killed and tied in knots
the way it was instructed in the text.
If only he'd remembered what came next. |
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