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+--- Thread: Stone Circle Sestina (/showthread.php?tid=20018)
Sestina - Grayday Sr. - January 11, 2017
I was bored, so I wrote a sestina. Some of this is a little overplayed to keep with the structure of the poem. Try to take it with a grain of salt.
it's midnight and the wind is loudwhite breath comes from the children's mouths -
(fear spikes him like a fang, so sharp he almost screams)
and he wonders, not for the first time, if they will all survive this winter
and most of all, he thinks of a red girl with green eyes,
out there all alone
he remembers the worried look that came into in her eyes
as he told her about his winters
and how the worst thing about them was being alone,
the silence so heavy you can't break it with a scream
even if the cold doesn't freeze up your mouth.
nothing can ever break it, nothing can ever be that loud
she hadn't listened. she was out there alone,
no one to wipe the tears from her eyes
no one to teach her how to weather the winter
no one to hunt with her, to put food in her mouth
it makes him want to yell at steady - loud
makes him want to scream
come back, stay away - he wonders if it's bad, there - the winter;
wonders if she thinks about him or gasps his name out loud
when she wakes up from that same nightmare (he does. greeneyes.
but it's only a dream, and he is alone
no matter how real it seemed when he thought he heard her scream -
and he hopes that that sound never really comes out of her mouth)
sometimes he thinks about how he never heard a goodbye out of her mouth
if he'd known she was leaving, he would've run after her, would've screamed
for her to wait, to take him with, to not leave the silence ringing so loud
to look at him before she took off with his heart, to look him in the eye
before she left him all alone
nothing to keep him company but heartache and winter
he tries, but nothing can distract him from this sorrow, not the kids' happy screams
not thoughts of the woman who'd left him to raise those kids alone
not the blood of a murderer dripping from steady's mouth
not the sounds of the buzzards, many and loud
not the scent of prey, felled by the winter
not the passage of time right before his eyes
he listens to the wind scream, another sigh tumbling out of his mouth
long and ragged and loud. he thinks of a red girl with green eyes
in her first winter, all alone.