#a poem by ren

[ren-c-leyn]

Falling Petals

It’s a quiet tragedy,

when flower petals fall,

scattering at the mercy,

of an uncaring wind,

doomed to fall,

to the ground,

and slowly be crushed within,

all while the world watches,

and says how beautiful,

it all is.

I wonder if flower petals,

could draw breath,

if they’d scream out against it all,

or if they’d take their fall quietly,

and hold it all behind,

clenched teeth too.

[thoughtkick]

Sometimes a perfect memory can be ruined if put to words.

Nova Ren Suma, Imaginary Girls

[1-marigold-1]

@treebarkweek Day 2 : Sweet / Salty

Ren won't be home for a whole day but that won't stop him from celebrating his Hand's birthday! So he decides to leave a little something for him :]

[halberdbooks]

"Autumn is Here — but Like a Ghost (October 4th)" by David M. Briggs

performed live by the author for Fae Propaganda III: The Autumn Court in Springfield, Illinois

[ren-c-leyn]

Anniversary Special #6

 Another Anniversary Special! This one is based on @writingonesdreams favorite world building detail - Arlen’s magic tradition, Flow Casting.

 This one is a bit off the beaten path since it’s a poem this time around.

The silent call,

of the world around you,

can you hear it?

Feel it,

in the marrow of your bones,

invite it to dance,

with the blood in your veins.

It knows your name,

just as it knows your ancestors’.

Power older than time,

a bond stronger than love,

you work together,

singing out,

into an ancient void,

a prayer for an answer,

to your invitation.

The world loves to dance,

she spins round and round,

slowly gliding into your arms.

She knows your name,

just as she knew your ancestors’.

You take her by the hand,

and air rushes out of your way,

as you draw her in close,

feeling the ancient power,

crawling through your veins.

But no one can hold the entire world long,

she loves to dance,

and will spin out of your arms.

Steal a touch power,

a kiss of promise,

a small reminder you have never been alone,

then shape it into something new.

Lightening for an enemy,

a shield for an alley,

a small flame to warm a friend,

a deep pool to save a life;

it is what you want it to be,

so long as it is of the world who kissed you.

Her touch used,

you feel the power bleeding from your veins,

the air coming back to embrace you,

but you still feel it,

down deep in your soul.

Her persistent call,

echoing all around you,

can you hear it?

Do you still feel it,

Deep in the marrow of your bones,

waiting for you to invite it,

to mix with the blood in your veins?

She knows your name,

As she did your ancestors’,

and she so loves to dance.

But you aren’t complaining,

you love to be in her embrace,

singing into the void,

with the one who chose to answer your desperate prayer,

and feeling the power of the world at your fingertips.

~

The Shackles of Time taglist ~ @writingonesdreams @queerlilchinchin @helathorloki @dragon-swords-prophecies @talesfromaurea @catinthesun2

[thoughtkick]

Sometimes a perfect memory can be ruined if put to words.

Nova Ren Suma, Imaginary Girls

[quotefeeling]

Sometimes a perfect memory can be ruined if put to words.

Nova Ren Suma, Imaginary Girls

[perfectfeelings]

Sometimes a perfect memory can be ruined if put to words.

Nova Ren Suma, Imaginary Girls

[thehopefulquotes]

Sometimes a perfect memory can be ruined if put to words.

Nova Ren Suma, Imaginary Girls

[vacantgodling]

i am (i killed your daughter)

mother’s day. transcription under the cut

i killed your daughter;

you say;

and i am reminded;

of;

the naive scene;

set thousands of years ago;

a mother cradling;

what will soon become dust;

and from those ashes;

reborn;

a savior;

yet;

did she grab his wrist;

and bid him stop;

beg him;

“recant!”;

the truth moistening;

parched lips;

caged behind;

bitter teeth;

“the truth is more valuable,

when you are alive to preach it”

did she pray;

he pretend;

to fit in;

like other children;

did she beg him to shrink;

for a moment;

hush;

her eldest was not;

the one who would bear;

the crown of agony;

round his dear head;

did she look him in his eyes;

and with tears;

say;

“this transition,

this path,

is far less worthy

of your suffering”

did she curse herself;

the first time he uttered;

“I AM”

i took your daughter;

he took her son;

yet;

she rejoiced;

and you spit;

embers in my face;

still;

i say;

“I AM”

[prismartist]

“Have you ever thought about death, Joe?”

Joe looks at the King, or rather at the back of his head. The King’s gaze is fixed on the full moon outside, framed by the window. In the private chamber, the blackstone whistles as a gust of cold wind blows in, ruffling the King’s fur rather literally. Bdubs is nowhere to be seen; Joe doesn’t feel like asking about that. The King had greeted Joe with determination set on his gray face, everything from his posture to the gray of his skin seeming like stone. It’s the most serious and sincere Joe’s seen the King in months, compared to his overt and almost comedic dramatism. It’s strange, how he seems the most serious in his bedroom, away from prying eyes. 

Joe supposes it won’t hurt to answer. “I suppose I have, my liege. I think we all think about death at one point or another. It’s an undisputed fact of life, except for certain flavors of immortal.”

The King hums in acknowledgment, though not so much in thoughtfulness. He doesn’t speak again for a bit. Joe holds himself awkwardly in the delicate atmosphere. He thinks he should be scared, summoned to the King’s private area in the dead of night with nary another soul to be seen, but the confusion and sleep deprivation overrides it. He decides to give the King some respectful prodding to move the conversation along.

“May I ask why I was summoned, my King?”

The King heaves in a breath. “I’ve been thinking a lot about death, Sir Joe. I have been thinking about it a lot.”

It’s Joe’s turn to hum.

The King continues, “Every King must consider the possibility of failure, is that not so? Of… death.”

“Again, sire, I’d say that everyone must.”

“That is true, that is true.” The King turns his head to the side but does not look at Joe. “And thus, so have I. Especially regarding… the coming events.”

“The minigames.”

“Yes. In the… slim chance, that we are overthrown, that the peasants are victorious… I’d like to create one last thing as King. With- with your help, of course.” 

“And what is that, your Majesty?”

The King finally turns completely, light shifting around his form as he moves, and meets Joe’s eyes. It strikes Joe that he has taken off his diamond glasses, and his eyes aren’t tinted blue for the first time in a while.

“Joe,” Ren says, “I’d like a poem, please.”

Joe blinks. “Why?”

Another sigh as Ren tilts his head, casting his gaze to the carpet below. “I know my kingdom is crumbling, man. I’d like to have something to- to remember this time, to both cherish and mourn it. To put it to a proper end. Simply a will of sorts, if I may.”

“A will.”

“Yes.”

Joe doesn’t have the heart to tell Ren that wills usually include leaving assets to beneficiaries, or that the word he’s looking for is probably “valediction”, so he asks instead, “What exactly would you like for me to write?”

More silence. Ren opens his mouth, then closes it, then says, “Whatever you see fit, Sir Joe. Thou art the poet, not I; I trust your words.”

“Have you told the others about this?’

“No.”

Above anything, Ren’s brevity surprises Joe the most. “Will you?”

Ren sighs. “I don’t think so. I don’t think I need to.”

“So you want to keep it personal.”

A pause, then Ren nods. 

“I can start on it right away. I think a limerick will be most befitting for you.”

“I don’t know what that means, but I approve. That would be lovely. Will you…” Ren shuffles his feet, and Joe marvels at the amount of surprises he’s seen tonight. Then Ren straightens and seems to summon back some conviction. “Will thee care to write thine poem here by moonlight, so that I might surveyeth thine writing?”

Joe can’t help but bow at the kingly voice. “I will, your Majesty.” 

Ren gestures to the desk, and Joe takes a seat, pulling out a notebook and a quill. Ren walks over, a looming dark presence that blocks the moonlight.

“...your Majesty, I kind of need the light to see.”

“Oh. Of course, my apologies.” And Ren moves to the other side. “So what exactly is a limerick?”

“Well, it’s traditionally a comic verse, for jokes and lighthearted stuff. But it has a quite a grand tone.”

“I see.”

“Where would you like for me to start?”

“Well… let’s start with a baker.”

“You got it.”

“Thank you, Joe.”

Joe looks up, and for one more surprise, Ren smiles down at him. Joe nods, and puts his quill to paper. 

“You’re welcome, Ren.”

[perfectquote]

Sometimes a perfect memory can be ruined if put to words.

Nova Ren Suma, Imaginary Girls

[hmgowords]

Translation of Ren Hang's poem

我买一把刀 I buy a knife 我们可以共用 We can both share the use of it 如果你不爱我了 If you don't love me anymore 我就杀掉你 Then I'll kill you 如果我不爱你了 If I don't love you anymore 你就杀掉我 Then you'll kill me

[perfeqt]

Sometimes a perfect memory can be ruined if put to words.

Nova Ren Suma, Imaginary Girls

[resqectable]

Sometimes a perfect memory can be ruined if put to words.

Nova Ren Suma, Imaginary Girls

[thoughtkick]

Sometimes a perfect memory can be ruined if put to words.

Nova Ren Suma, Imaginary Girls