Something rang in her, a repetitive theme in her dreams, or not so much theme
as texture on tongue
or temperature on neck
or humidity of strange land.
of rolling frozen hills at dusk
of stone houses to rest in
of frequent movement across borders.
Viewing it not like in the movies with dotted red lines trailing aces, but of the jagged greens and blues of conquest. From above.
It gnawed at her, this odd interpretation of dream themes as her immediate future, but it never rang so true until today.
Surely her dreams would not prophesize something equal or less to her immediate circumstance. So what was it, and which way?
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2 comments:
Now THAT'S what I'M talking about!
That's some fine poetry, my love.
of humidity of strange land.
of rolling frozen hills at dusk
of stone houses to rest in
with dotted red lines training aces
I love how you've gone to tercets in the last three stanzas. It totally lends to a feeling of movement in the poem. Forward movement.
More more more more more!
Love you miss you,
j
does it count if I did it completely accidentally (googling tercets). Yeah I should probably go to school.
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