Masquerade

This is my first draft of Masquerade written in the form of a Sestina. I'm not completely happy with the ending word "princess" I chose. Thinking of reworking those lines.

Masquerade

School is no place to haunt from shadows,
So instead I am cast to revealing limelight,
Playing the role of pampered princess.
Much as one would watch and listen to caged songbird,
I am displayed with delight, and joy heard as my music,
As I rejoice in the drama that is my mask.

But can one rejoice in that which is but a mask?
Can one exist in light with such a shadow?
When on display, I must silence my true music,
Each glance yet another terrible searchlight,
Digging to discover I am truly a mockingbird,
As within this molded clay I contain my own secret princess.

But who, you ask, is this secluded princess?
She is like me, for she also wears a mask,
And has similar freedom as those caged songbirds.
Contrary to I, she fights for her desecrated land, smeared in shadow,
And garbed as a warrior, she climbs for the light,
Using her strength, noble Link, and her lullaby's lifting music.

Oh, what I would give to share her melodies, her music,
But caged as I am in this masquerade of pink princess,
I continue to shade my passion from that searing light,
My salacious obsession shrouded and masked.
I fear discovery of my shameful love, cloaked in shadow,
For exposed I’ll be little more than a yard bird.

What I would give to not be this trapped bird!
To be with those listeners of Indie Music.
For my secret to be illuminated, not sealed in shadow.
I could be a whole new type of princess,
And throw on a pristine image and cast aside this misplaced mask,
And guide my illicit love into the scorching sunlight.

But for now, that dream is as distant as starlight,
A castle in the sky to cast out with the thunder birds.
My only hope is to one day find another, perhaps so masked,
And reach out to him with Saria's cheery music.
My own Link hidden in life's harsh shadow,
Ready to save the world of his beloved princess.

Until that majestic dawn whence tepid shadow shifts to warm light,
I stand resolved as both royal princess and jailed songbird,
And lilt my music, waiting behind this glass mask, anticipating more.

Comfort

Each fair day I wake to hear the morning lark,
Chirping loud above the babble present here,
Screams that rupture my blissful morning's rare sleep,
Rested state so quickly dissipates as air.

Days continue on in patterns much like this,
Screamo tunes arise from the brothers' dark lair,
Clanking pots and pans from Mother's morning haste,
Slamming doors, the morning's harsh own Reveille.

Yet Today, at last, a change has come about,
Quiet day, I rise to hum from fan above,
Difference found at silence' soft and silky touch,
Clamor finally shushed, yet felt so far away.

I should find joy in euphony averted,
But now I feel as flake's first drop at Fall's dawn,
Drifting, shaking, down into the broad unknown,
I turn on Underoath and imagine home.

Silence

Yeah, never gonna get the weeks done right. So here's a poem anyway. This is called a Rictameter but it's got a bit of a twist in that the letter "a" is unused.

Silence.
Euphonies rise
Through the sweet solitude
Found strung through roiling symphony
Between bell tolls ringing out rhythmic tones.
There lies the fine truth of sound's hushed neighbor:
Expression muted holds no lure
Devoid sweet unbound
Sound to couple
Silence.

Week 18

I haven't felt very creative lately. I think this project is just gonna take longer than a year to complete, haha. But I wrote this to commemorate the lives and deaths of three kings and a queen of media that have passed on last week.

Death in Threes

They say that death shall raid in groups of threes,
And truthfully it seems to me they do,
For this past week was plagued with loss of these,
And so we mourn them all with eyes subdued.

When Ed Mcmahon was lost at eighty-six,
The world gave trembling sighs for his sad death,
For with him gone we'll miss the Carson mix,
As both the ancient stars have lost their breath.

After him, Farrah Fawcett met her end,
Fighting cancer as only angels do,
But though her fight is over she ascends,
As we recall her beautiful hair-do.

Third death to course, Michael Jackson passed on,
A man of mystery, both black and white,
And though he will never see another dawn,
It's those he touched with music that still might.

We thought the deaths were done with Pop's true King
For three is plenty, we all must agree,
But only Billy Mays, the Advert King,
Would give another ABSOLUTELY FREE!

Week 17

...ish
This is based on The Wayfarer's Redemption series by Sara Douglass.
Never Forget My Name

Let me tell you my child, of my own tired life.
I've endured a childhood filled with horror and strife,
My father of falsehood who had slain my mother young,
Tore out my wings when each feather grew strong.

Perhaps it was fear that drew him 'long that path,
But I'm more inclined to think twas the Plow-Keeper's wrath,
The hate of The Forbidden they preached to us all,
But we know now the truth. We've seen Artor's great fall.

My mother laughed with joy as she saw my wings thrive,
And said to me, "I knew your proof of godhood would arrive!"
But sadly the Plow-Keeper saw them far too soon,
And destroyed my life right there in that room.

Oh, even now I can hear her last tortured screams,
As I hid from the sight of the horrendous things,
But his torture of my life was not quite complete,
And he turned back to me with a gaze of heat.

He tore out my wings with his righteous vigor apparent,
Choosing to torment my life, his own became quite errant,
My mother is buried there, outside and alone,
For now only I know where her body was thrown.

Even now, with the Plow-Keeper long gone,
I regret that I cannot hear my mother's song.
Her name is lost, forever perhaps unknown,
So now I request that you never forget my own.

And truth is shown in your bounding light,
For now I know true peace after long blight,
"Azhure!" you say with boisterous glee,
"Never fear mother, I'll always remember thee."

Week 16

Catch-up week. =)

Fluidity of Motion
-a tale of competition

Mine own heart be wise to 'ware this
Invocation my body speaks now. Its intentions
Nigh but leave hooks upon my soul as crabgrass
Infests the soft sinew of life upon the yard.
More the fool am I to think I can triumph,
And yet, the fluidity I am born shall rise as a
Lion amongst sheep, a strength amongst weakness.
Internal monologue aside, my muscles flare as fireworks
Spark upon dry reeds and the clay home for my soul fixates
Toward the goal, and the promise of wine and merriment beyond.

Week 15

Fruitless

To view a flower such as thee,
to garden home I'd stretch my feet.
I'd sit among the plants all day
and contemplate their windblown sway,
their soft green limbs that climb the sky,
and vibrant petals please the eye.
What use they serve I cannot know,
for waste of space is all that shows,
and while those small lives may still thrive,
for you that path is but demise.
The rose may grow within this world,
as fruitless life becomes unfurled,
but you who naught but see thy self,
in stylish dress and hoards of pelf,
can grow no more than mere seedling,
and be naught but the life you cling.