(Flashback) Beneath the Oak Tree (Solo)

[Blythe]

57 Summer, 507 AV Blythe was sitting down against an old oak tree. The sun was high in the sky, kissing her cheeks with its soft golden-colored rays. Her journal was resting in her lap. It was open to the next clean sheet of paper. Her quill pen was pressed into the top left hand corner of the blank sheet, waiting for Blythe to slide it across the page, to paint a brand new picture with her words. After a few long, drawn-out minutes, Blythe came up with: All of your dark intentions, will eventually come to light, when you face the goddess’ might, and you are forced to mention, all of your lies, all of your plans, will slip through the spaces between your hands, but none of us will be surprised, for a part of us already knew, we could sense the truth, there was simply too much proof, of your being a shrew What in all of Mizahar? Blythe wondered what in Avalis’ name she had been thinking. Thank goodness she hadn’t written that one down, she thought, knowing that rhyming poetry was a waste of space, and the pages her journal contained were growing more and more limited every day. Blythe sighed, what about: Pink petals, flutter to the ground, crashing into the sea of grass, which sways silently in the wind bowing to the midnight sky and the milky moon, the shimmering stars Blythe shook her head. She didn’t like that one either. It seemed a little too cliché to her to be anything worth recording. But what about: The floral blanket that is cast over the ground during the spring is watered by the tears of the sky, and the avid gardener, who allows the grass to grow green before clipping it, like he does his nails, sprinkling the fallen blades over the earth Blythe shook her head, “No! No! No!” Why wasn’t she coming up with anything GOOD today? She wondered, as she dug the tip of the quill pen into the paper even more roughly. She was gritting her teeth, and gripping the quill pen tightly between the tips of her fingers. After a few moments of sheer frustration, Blythe wrote: Bitter tastes linger on the lips far longer than when one finds something sweet or salty or something anywhere in-between. Bitter tastes, tease the tongue, for like the sour taste, they are unpleasant, and give the illusion that the one who ate had done something wrong to deserve it, and unlike the sweet things found in this world, the bitter taste is not pleasant, it does not make one feel welcome, or warm, or generally desired, like the sweet things.

[Blythe]

Hmmmm, Blythe thought. That one was slightly repetitive, although it did have some good moments. And at least the poem stood for something. Always reminding one to be sweet as opposed to bitter or generally sour. You were more likely to attract people that way. Blythe tilted her head to the side, and stared at the poem thoughtfully, a shy smile displayed upon her pale lips. It wasn’t her best work, but at least it was a slight improvement over the other things she had come up with during the course of the day. Blythe turned the page to the next clean sheet of paper. She wanted to write another poem before she called it a day, but all her mind could come up with was: In the frame of mind in which one tries to tame the unkind soul who seeks to destroy the world as a whole, and not simply the coy, or the ones that pose a threat, to that which is desired and won in bets, or battled for on a field of green grass in which only one party shall yield to the brass of the victor who shall have all he wants even if he must tour a land of ants in order to return home, to the place he belongs, where he can tend to the bone, that was broken, and the lungs, which never get enough air. And Blythe knew that rhyming poetry just would not do. But nothing else seemed to be coming to her. So instead of writing more, she pressed her quill pen into the middle of the page, and closed her journal. She looked up at the sun, which was steadily rising in the sky, and wondered what it would be like to look down upon the world from way up there. She imagined that every body of water must look like a large blue blob, while every mountain looked like a small brown spike. Every section of grass must seem like a green blob, and all of the people and all of the animals, like ants. She didn’t think she’d like to see the world that way. It lost all of the details, and all of its beauty. It must be a rather sad way to see. Blythe thought, feeling strangely sorry for the sun. But then again, if the sun didn’t know what it were missing, would it feel as though it had been missing anything at all? OOCAgain, I apologize for my lousy poetry, but at least it reflects Blythe’s levels.

[Alice]

Blythe

Experience: 3 Poetry, 1 Philosophy
Lores: Repeating Phrases in Poems, The Sun’s Perspective, Failing at Avoiding Rhymes

Comments

Your poetry isn’t as bad as you think, or at least it sounds good to me. I especially liked the one starting with “bitter tastes”. It’s difficult to award lores for this ... Should I pick lores from the poems? I awarded the Philosophy point because of Blythe’s musing about the sun. Always a pleasure to read, your solo threads!