Work Header

From the Pen of Inky Quill

Chapter Text

1. Candy Hearts

I do without an answer. I do without reply.
Pink candied hearts defront. They melt. In rain, as on tongues,
such words hide. Like soft-furred creatures who from harsh din shy,
I do without an answer. I do without reply. 
Untasted, confections crumb. In caverns cool and dry,
the motes dance. And I mutely declare on brittle lungs:
I do without an answer. I do without reply.
Pink sugar hearts defront. They melt in rain as on tongues.


2. Portmanteau

there the trunks in the bunks on the racks in the stacks, come-and-go portmanteau
the valises with creases and cases with traces of oft to-and-fro
there the marks of the larks: destination and tout, transportation and route
in the cracks of the leather, in sacks, in the whether, the monsoon and drought

in between can be seen a fine traveling desk of mahogany wood
in its folded condition it holds much perdition as well as much good
when unfolded mere notion is gilded and golded and spun into tale
there a fondness becomes correspondence, aslumber this wonder of rail


3. Candles

Quiet in queues are the questions in mews.
Ribboned in rows is the unrighteous prose.
Sisterly cisterns do sit with their blood.
Tiny each tipple that’s tapped from the flood.

Fleeting the flames that are flickering small.
Wickedest wicks cannot whittle the squall. 
Candles in canticles canting with froth.
Knavishly knotting the nightwalker’s wrath.


4. Symphony

The instruments convened. Eclectic mix.
The elements assembled, picked with care. 
New spell to be performed. Pyrectic tricks. 
A symphony. An invocation bare.
The ears, attuned, await orectic fix. 
The raised baton, the penetrating stare
the pregnant pause of gravid testatrix.
Anticipation grows, a silent dare.
And—whoosh!—raw electricity released!
The music and the magic spring unleashed!


5. Old Church

proud like a ruinous king on a crumbling ash throne
covered in snow and abandoned, unorthodox tombstone
up on a perch the old church can remember the first war
mountains recall all the pillage and pall of the old lore

buried on high, the intolerant graves in the hoarfrost
married to sky, disregarding the staves and the yore lost
harried by naught that’s been wrought, these old knaves in the triptych
serried, forgotten and rotten and laved in the cryptic