ㅁ The dog was wishing she could run all up and down the road, but I restrained her with the leash... she huffed and bore the load.
– a quatrain in ballad meter.
ㅁ The dog was wishing she could run all up and down the road, but I restrained her with the leash... she huffed and bore the load.
– a quatrain in ballad meter.
ㅁ Kiamon counted the times she had tried, Each time as if she had somehow just died. Now here she was, trying once more, again, Still she compelled herself: think where she'd been.
– a quatrain in dactylic tetrameter.
ㅁ the worst forgetting is when you forget that just before you already forgot
– a couplet in a slightly defective blank verse (iambic pentameter).
ㅁ trees on the shore were becoming the wind wind on the sea was creating the waves sounds of the waves were disturbing my dreams dreaming I knew that the storm would soon pass
ㅁ Kiamon dreamed that the wind was her friend, Happy to blow through a life near its end. Waking she realized she wasn't yet dead; rising, she went out to see where things led.
ㅁ ephemeral droplets of unending rain pattered the window and underscored pain fading to background, another event overtook consciousness, charged the brain rent
ㅁ The trees made gestures, showing exaltation, and clearly hoping they could fly away. The slugs were tasting stones on lower paths, that clouds prepared with frequent irrigation.
ㅁ The sun appeared for just a day, or two. Enough to dry the rocks but not the trees. The streams became a little slower then, but rain and fog returned to hurry them.
ㅁ Kiamon sat and considered her slump: nothing moved forward, she just was a lump. Nevertheless things would brighten, she thought. Then she would finally find what she sought.
ㅁ Kiamon watched as a raven took wing, pondering just what engendered this thing. Doubts seemed to flee as she hardened her soul, knowing she'd finally take on the role.
ㅁ Kiamon never considered the fact: others disliked her avoidance of tact; personally she just viewed it as truth... slightly heroic, to be so uncouth.
ㅁ I took a road, abstractly lost, awaiting clarity; instead I wandered aimless paths, pure angularity.
ㅁ Eccentrically, I don't use a bed. Instead each night I lie down on the floor. But that confuses things: I make my bed at bedtime; when I rise it gets unmade.
ㅁ The wind, it came and pushed the waves along; they gently stroked the stones along the shore. The clouds extended, capturing the sky, and droplets fell to nourish all the green.
ㅁ The sun has cast its glances down upon the fishy seas and lit the dust of narrow roads and mirthless, earnest trees.
ㅁ Kiamon drifted along in a daze; life had become an ineffable maze, endlessly throwing up difficult games, sending on detours her previous aims.
ㅁ Kiamon struggled to bring it together. All of the clues were piled up like the weather; when you see storm clouds all laden with rain, moody and dark, premonitions of pain.
ㅁ Kiamon sat and gazed out at the fog: seemed she was facing a bit of a slog. Not so much bodily as with her mind; somehow she had to escape from this bind.
ㅁ Despite my best procrastination games, the map took shape. Regardless of my aims, a steady application makes it grow and finally it looks like somewhere real.
ㅁ The day presented tasks to do, and some of them got done; but in the end I noticed more the clouds yield to the sun.
ㅁ Kiamon yielded to sleep's dull caress. What they had said had all failed to impress. Nothing she knew was in fact making sense: she'd have to wait now for future events.
ㅁ Poems are good, or they're bad - you decide. Take a position, defend either side. Meanings can bend, semiotics can shift, all in your mind, and the changes are swift.
ㅁ Spring is unbearable, just like the fall: seasons do best when they're in one and all. Likewise the sun shouldn't vary each day: better to have it a lot, or away.
– a quatrain dactylic tetrameter. Bear in mind the “narrator’s voice” here really isn’t my opinion. It’s a kind of exaggerated, somewhat facetious narrator speaking.
ㅁ Kiamon felt that the dreams were obscure. Meaning was vague and she just wasn't sure. Grandfather's ghost never laid it all out: rather he seemed to throw symbols about.
ㅁ Kiamon never imagined there'd be obvious answers to questions we see; nevertheless she still could not deny ghost-given answers were often quite sly.
ㅁ I walked along my path today and gave the plants a glare so mean that in the end they fell back, seemingly aware.
ㅁ "If you are a divergentist, you hold that the social-cognitive universe is expanding towards an epistemic heat death of universal solipsism, and you are at peace with this thought." - Venktash Rao when epistemic death heat comes the universe will end amid an endless chattering of apophenic trends
– a quatrain in ballad meter, on a philosophical topic that piqued my interest.
ㅁ no dog preferred to just sit still no dog would contemplate no dog could ever be a sage no dog can self-sedate
ㅁ a dog will bound along the road a dog will dance and twist a dog will gnaw the leaning trees a dog will taste the mist
ㅁ "As far as blah-blah on the words," she said... No meaning mattered once the tongue got loose, it made its own saussurean designs inscribed across the map of hopes and doubts.
ㅁ I ask myself if there could ever be a dream wherein the morning never came and in the end the dreamer would become a kind of listless spirit, all alone.
ㅁ Kiamon maybe once thought to herself "might just be better to put on a shelf; face all the ways that we each reach our end; face just the fact that the gods' wills don't bend."
ㅁ Kiamon gazed at the fog on the lake weather had forced her to take a short break. Still she grew frustrated, time passed her by... hopes were obscured just as clouds hid the sky.