A little, willing poet sits on the bleachers, dressed in stanza's, watching Prose dance with other writers in the soliloquy. Suits made of sonnets, dresses and gowns spinning out in luminescent limericks, the Poet watched the spectacle with glistening eyes.
A Couplet walked past, so very much entwined the Poet wasn't sure where one rhyme started and the other ended. A midnight ballad played filling the air with languid lyrics and the dancers swayed in the chandelier light, alive in the romance of it all.
All the Poet wanted was an Ode—just a meek song of praise to caress her lips and inspire the ink from her pen, but the Odes walked past enchanted by the melody and praises of others.
The Poet watched as the Tercets and Quatrains picked their partners, even the Syllables found their Sonnets, until she was the only one still sitting in the stands—cross legged, hands folded politely in her lap.
Perhaps this isn't for me, she thought.
Maybe I'm not a Poet after all.
The Poet sighed and stood, picking up her pen and parchment and flattening out the folds in her silken dress when a hand caught hers in an audacious grip. The Poet looked up, surprised at the act, a delicate blush painting her cheeks as she realised who it was holding her hand.
An Epic stood before her, cloaked in promise and eyes ablaze with revelation rhymes. He shone in the champagne light and smiled at the Poet.
You, the Epic said. I choose you, dear One.
You are the perfect Poet to write me.
The Poet smiled and the Epic took her hand, leading her out of the grand hall and into the light of the full Moon.
A buck grazes and sips at the gathering midnight dew near a line of shadowy trees, the light from his chandelier antlers casting playful patterns upon branches and waltzing leaves.
A couple locked in a passionate embrace were briefly lit in a shake of his head.
To the general passer-by this would have gone unnoticed, but what they would have seen with the eyes of their heart (should they choose to see), was an Epic composition being passionately written by a willing Poet.
By Zara Moore
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Beautiful, Zara.