Drizzle's Pain He stood so still he seemed to be dead, if a dead thing could stand.
The weather had been whipped to a frenzy and seemed to be bent on ripping his cloak away from him and his hair from the roots. Still he stood unmoved.
Atop the Tower of Gebra, it was already susceptible to high winds, but with a weather wizard in as much turmoil as Drizzle, the great monument groaned in protest. The very stone of the thing threatened to be wrenched from its place.
Lightning had the air tense and left a smell of ozone heavy and oppressive around him. Rain like needles tore into every bit of his exposed skin and stung sharp enough to leave tears in his eyes. Then again, those tears were the product of many things; the rain was the least of his worries.
Abruptly, he seemed to convulse but not with some uncontrollable seizure, with such passionate pain it sent a b
He writes on surfaces; free hand, no paper or pencil,
Using an indelible pen: non-erasable.
He must write till all the walls have been covered in his spindly letters,
Filling every space with expressions and endeavours.
If only I could make his passage easier or rest that thought-filled mind.
A heart so full and driven to fill the world with more of his kind,
He will never stop until the end of life and time.
Paper, he says, confines him to a square the size of a sheet,
He'd rather press his ink to where the wood and words meet.
I'd write him a poem, but he'd write it so much better,
He'd have each phrase's meaning right down to the letter.
Such a burden on such a young soul,
His vision wavers and he's uncertain of his goal.
Silly child so young in years and old in heart,
You have decades yet to find out your part,
In life's play of time and redemption.
You'll be the making of literature; this I mention,
Because you seem in doubt of your place.
I know what I see, and I see
ComfortAt the end of the day, I realize, it's only me and the thoughts in my head;
Tossing and turning, lost in my bed.
Not sure what it means, in a dream there was someone, something,
Standing at my side, asking why I wouldn't sing.
No reply could I supply, I had no voice;
There was no heart in me and no choice.
It wasn't tall, it wasn't small: it was the size of something needed.
When it tried to take my hand I refused until I knew where it leaded.
Though I hid in my world it wouldn't leave me be,
It refused to go, it refused to leave.
"Why are you here? Why do you haunt my world of dreams?"
"I cannot leave you here to hide in silent screams."
What am I to it, what is it to this thing?
If I should cry, lie or cling?
It told me it knew how it felt, to stand here and watch the visions in my head,
The ones that walk and talk, and say the things I dread.
None of it was real, they spoke what I desired, but were dead.
I rather hate this place; there is far too much wishing and want,
None that tak
A Nice Story...Maybe I should be clearer. Then again, I'd be transparent and I have this thing against being see-through.
Maybe it's better to be cloudy, like the weather.
Clouds are sad, always. Ask them, they'll tell you they are constantly filled with water just waiting to spill out in a pattern of spitting tears.
I wish I could make them feel better but they always tell me to get down from the sky, apparently it's the property of the sun.
You see, the sun and I have been at war, he doesn't like coming out when I want him but enjoys making an appearance while I'm talking to the rain. He always scares it away and I never get to finish a conversation. What'd I ever do to him?
He won't tell me because he says I talk to clouds. Clouds annoy him. I think if he was nicer to them they might not be so sad. But he's selfish.
I can't say the clouds aren't entirely absent of blame, I heard they play tricks on him. When he closes his eyes for a moment they fill his sky so, that when he opens them
ContentI was asked:
What are you?
And I said,
The answer was:
"I don't know."
Still, they enquired:
To which I replied:
"It won't stop raining."
They told me:
And I said:
"I am content."
How Are Things...Well, how are things in Heaven?
I heard people sing,
And bells ring.
I'd like to ask how you are,
But I know you're just fine,
Having followed the road signs.
Don't forget I'll be there soon,
You haven't gotten rid of me yet,
The day is certain, the time, set.
Save a seat for me,
Greet our mutual friends,
And I'll see you when the world ends.