She DancesShe dances
Across the stage
With a whirl of movement
And a burst of unmitigated energy
She grabs at their attention
And twists herself up in it.
But I cannot help but see
With every soaring success
Shadows behind her
Young faces, eager faces
Unseen to most
Barely felt by her,
That when she swoops
Trip and soar behind
And as she grabs at the audience
Watch behind her
And when the show is done
The seats vacated
The theater gutted and echoing,
I stand alone
And still their shadows flit
In and out of memory,
For I see my own visage there among them
Walking the path of what might have been
Across an empty stage.
Why Keep Out the RainWhy keep out the rain?
Why keep out the storm?
Why be frightened of the sharp smells
The damp, static air,
That whirls life into a musty room?
Why shield yourself from water of the heavens
That has traveled so long to find you?
Why close the windows to their soft
Why not have your hair whipped into
A new configuration,
Your world seen in a fresh perspective?
Why not breath in the smell of life?
The smell of change?
The smell of the earth's timeless cycle?
Why sit docile and hidden under stagnant air.
When you can fly above with
"a hey ho, the wind and the rain"?
Paint bucket and Two SpoonsWith a paint bucket
and two spoons
he placed himself on the side of the street
And played a rhythm.
A slow and steady one,
never faster, never slower,
like a human heart.
And he became blended
with the rest of the city,
who passed him every day
without glancing once
in his direction.
His drum was a sound,
a puzzle piece,
that made up the picture
of that street.
But one day,
for some reason,
he didn't show up.
And the people
who walked by his post every day
without a second thought
and said to one another
that something was missing
in the picture of that street.
A puzzle piece was missing.
What could it be?
And they listened
and they looked
and they realized
that the man with the paint bucket,
and two spoons,
who played a slow and steady rhythm,
like a human heart,
whom they had never glanced at
and who had become a part
a puzzle piece
of the picture
of this street
"We miss him,"
And the next day
the man came back,
and set down his paint bucket
Underwater Gazing UpBroken, clamboring, mirrored surface.
Rippled and bubbled,
an everchanging mosaic recording all movements.
I forget that I am a creature of land and air.
I lay and stare at sky-bound oceans up above
through a glass of infinite potentials.
I lift a hand and all senses are thrown into confusion
as fingers break from the rippling surface to shatter into air,
and suddenly I remember what weight feels like.
Jewels of half light, half water
fly for a brief second
as my face follows, bursting into cold wind.
Like emerging from bed,
from a dream,
PMOCT- Sorrel Char Ref SheetBasic Info
Collected by: Hestia
Species: Homo sapiens
Height: 5' 1
Weight: 125 lbs
Eye Color: Dark brown
Hair Color: Black
Sorrel began her life in the moderate river-port town of Rothstadt, well within the Dasharan empire's expanding borders. Her mother died of smallpox about a year after giving birth to her, so her half-siblings; Gretchen, Fred, Marlie, and Jacob, all took on some aspect of raising her, and each became important parts of her life for different reasons. (She'll tell you she couldn't care less about Jacob, who left when she was 11 to join a riverboat crew, but she'd be lying.)
In the winter of Sorrel's 16th year, the long-simmering power struggle between local Dasharan officials and the original Leuten government finally came to a head. Leuten resistance groups (or the "Soldats"), set on expelling the conquering empire from their land, soon adopted the clash as their own, and the fighting became something more akin to gang wa
PMOCT- AuditionAtop the desk, a spider-cam scuttled about in a rather aimless manner. It scrambled over a pencil, then paused as distant footsteps swiftly approached. The next moment, the small office's door swung open to admit what looked like a woman, dark hair in a loose bun and wearing a blue and yellow jumpsuit, whistling something that might have once been a tune. The spider-cam resumed it scuttling as Hestia tossed her mop in the corner of the room and glanced at the clock.
3:05. Almost time to head home. Or it would be.
Instead of dropping off her utility belt and leaving the office, smelling of old carpet, to enjoy her Friday evening, Hestia instead approached her desk. At the moment, it remained buried under several stacks of memos or reports or other papers that someone thought she should be reading. Hestia shoved aside one stack to reveal several Yarn Balls sitting together, each just touching its neighbors. Below them a few sheets of paper showcased thick blocks of text and several pictu
HallsI walk these never-ending halls,
for I fail to see
a place to be,
where these never-ending halls
are meant to be leading me.
The halls diversify themselves
from carpet to tile
and muffled to white echoes.
I appreciate their attempts
but I still sense there an unmistakable air
of uninterrupted monotony.
For still doors line the walls with frowning knobs
and still, distant figures join me
in the wanderings of these halls.
And still there is that specter
my eyes refuse to see,
for to my ears where red blood pounds,
come the whispy, steady sounds
of my footsteps following me.
And as I continue my travels
towards an exit I will not find
it becomes chillingly clear
that the halls I walk here
are the ones inside of my mind