/lit/ - Literature

Book IX

My compartment was rapped upon at last,
my presence requested!
In the center of the square
I opened my dorm's door to several doors deep,
walls white,
dense and negligent of pile in its leached carpets,
thank God for the level nature of this splinter,
for if it was turn'd skyward on its side
Hall's stuffy stave of heaven would drown
slow blanching me
with squalor in its staccato scatter,
I playing eye games with the others
that I may not connect with
'till I finally sit understanding
into the eyes of my rectors;

I was in great trouble!
The office of your superiors
tell me to recall these events
in the company of my peers!
Yet…
I cannot speak clear…

"Why must you speak in riddle?
Put an end to this detached nonsense
you are not nonchalant,
and put your subject first. Remember:"

OURS IS THE PAROLE,
SHE BEARS NO OTHER LANGUID CREOLE.

My, how the Parole is potent on my position that night
for it was given freely from the mouth of my chosen companion
I knew its nature now
for it I am ordered to keep futile guard
in the plush foyer of Purgatory,
edge of the boundaries of
hurtling rashly into A Wall…

Me and my Mate sit in the crook of life's stairway…
a stratified gallery of balustrades splits
ten minutes till Midnight;
fluorescent light's enlightenment is my only stimulant at that time
from the diffracting canthus of my hornrims,
those impossible distorted stories mock that I cannot master them,
that entire suites of emanations in them I cannot keep
from my surreal forefront;
like clumsy leather feet tripping over those trivial flights,
I might try to remaster the original image...
Just look not too lofty or you’ll smolder in the red penthouses
lest you climb those long lengths to places unknown,
for the confusion of Color will rouse you traveling to the next verse...
I must be a Courier for every major Dolor now
but all their Floors are threadbare and black!

For the Forest outside the dusty Door is the new Game my Mate is playing:
"Parallax of Passerines" for any known System,
where the pedantic Sparrows morph their beaks to consume
on Edge of the wood with her Vireos,
the Juncos' heads sway with the perilous grass,
groundward do the Nuthatches upend their spritely movement,
warblers are where the Hunter only knows,
while the untimely mask of the Yellowthroat
droops drama-wasted on the cement…

"Are you sure you want to stay in this place?"
my Mate asks...