[=10]
It was a rainy night, you know. I still remember looking out at the windowpanes and seeing great droplets of water committing suicide, ending their lives as they had been forced to do. I remember taking one moment as a photograph in my head and keeping it for a while, my reflection looking tired and impatient in the window. I recall the sky that night, black clouds billowing and draping upwards to the velveteen abyss that hung above the rest of the world and I, the pale moon a signal, a mournful warning. I knew it would not be long until my fate was decided.
What you must know about me and the others is that our world is just like yours. Exactly the same, in fact, but the main difference is that in our world, black magic runs amok, white magic is scarce to come by, and our royalty is rather old-fashioned and traditional...at least, it was back then. I believe there have been stories written before about this world - something about a man that worked in a theatre, two friends united then lost, never to remember eachother, nightmares...Part of a dream I had, you know - but in my world, people call my dreams prophecies.
My name is, appropriately, Prophet. I have been a poet all my life and I hope to continue that, with or without my prophetical abilities. But I must be silent about my current state, for a little while.

As I said, it was a rainy night when they came for me. The guards took me, one for each arm, and they half-led, half-dragged me down the stone-walled corridor. I wasn't struggling. I was just too tired to try and walk properly. Prison food is not pleasant and as far as I know it never has been, not here. I closed my eyes as they dragged me, and I tried to summon the poet inside me, the one that I had been known as - but he would not surface. I felt hollow. I felt cold, inside and out. I felt dead already. And I felt even more extinct as I eventually looked up into the stone-cold eyes of the king of our time.

Apologises for the very mild sexual references in here. His name is Innuendo for a reason, I suppose.

One winters morning; No. That's to silly for an introduction of a story. Fine, I'll just change the genre:

The time unknown but known it's morning,
Meaning the day will soon be dawning.
Crisp cracks of ice like shatterd glass,
The warriors of Winter; a metophoric class.
The moisture from my nose goes, frozen by the stinging air,
Not exactly soft, gentle nor sensitive care.
Leaves whisk all around,
The hitting leaves had a russeling sound.
Winter is here,
A chilly time even for deer.
This poem may not appeal,
I am doing this for a festive forest feel.
My cold little nose,
My streched out toes.
Ears lifted and eyes are bright,
This will elongate my height.
See this branch here? I will nuzzle it, to make the snow fall,
Then there it was a bellowed call.
One I have never heard before,
So strange and exciting with shivers, galore.
This sound isn't known,
A tightly wrapped box was then thrown.
My investigated nose gave a tap,
The flowers burst looked like an arranged map.
This was a present, that was for sure,
I had never done this before.
Back to the rhyme? I think so,
This is my attempted go.
Snow near my feet and trotting along,
Be gone old sing-a-longs.
The deers gathered; The community,
Enjoy this festive opitunity <3

~I done one better than this earlier however when I went to post it. It didn't work and I lost it D:
But enjoy! c:

Something I penned in my absence this fall.



((This has been another visit to Seed's Poetry Corner, brought to you today by my final for my poetry workshop.))