Rustling — Poetry
…This is what happens when you listen to too many Ren songs when writing poetry, apparently *shrugs* — blaming the universe, tbh.
Do — you feel it? It’s coming on the wind Heard it as the reed beds Rustled for our sins
Do — you see it? Breaking of the day Bleakness of the landscape Steals your breath away.
Can — you feel it? Smoke is in the grass. Sun is rising overhead — this may be the last.
Do — you hear it? Something’s coming in Wraps and wraps of funeral shroud Sent here for your sins.
Do — you notice? The way the world seems now Wait until the wheel turns Then we’ll give a bow
Do — you feel it? The smoke is lifting soon Miles and miles of smog and dust Crept into your room
Can — you be it? The thing you have to be, I know you didn’t ask for it The truth will set you free.
Do — you see it? This cycle’s not your last It’s tough and rough and hurts, but The die it has been cast
Can — you feel it? The murmurs underground The way the land shrieks out, and The fires all around.
Will — you mean it? With every breath you take This is who you are now, The Lady from the Lake
Do — you know it? Deep inside your core Don’t stop up the dam, now, Your words, they will be lore.
Prompt from the resident Ravyne Hawke:
“Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern.” ― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
