Meanwhile In Wonderland...

Literary_Dreamer

Rêveuse Littéraire
Original poster
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Invitation Status
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
  2. One post per week
  3. Slow As Molasses
Writing Levels
  1. Adept
  2. Advanced
  3. Prestige
  4. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Primarily Prefer Male
  3. No Preferences
Genres
I love vampire role-plays. I like sci-fi with a distopian plot. I like yaoi quite well, but I do het pairings just as often. A touch of romance is good but I prefer romantic comedy to straight romance.
A/N: I am not much of a poet, admittedly. I prefer to play with prose. However, I had to write a poem for my creative writing class and I rather liked how it turned out. When I got it back, it came with a suggestion to play with the line breaks. I did but I can't decide which version I like better, so I thought I might post it here and see what the good people of Iwaku have to say about it. ^.^

Version #1:

Meanwhile in Wonderland​

Two faces in a mirror.
One, blank and dull, the other
vivaciously full of life.
The first, with hair clipped short,
suit neatly ironed,
speaking in typewriter tone.
The second, long skeins of
flowing curls, swathed in soft
hippie clothes with sandals,
mumbling and crying in
all those fabled foreign tongues.

They stare into each others’
eyes, between the lucid glass.
Not understanding, never
understanding another.
Lost within the looking glass.

The first, called Cadence,
is always on time and always
prepared with just the right words.
They are bone dry and dead
like King Tut’s tomb or queenly
toiletries from Lizzie One.
She doesn’t care, she shouldn’t.
The content is important
but the vehicle may rot.
She is eloquent like a
Victorian tea party
and just as deadly prudish.

The second names herself Eden.
She flies freely from restraint,
and sings with words of joyous
hyperbole though she be late.
She gathers fine words like fruit
but has trouble making a tart.
She dreams of death like a phoenix
already in flame, but she
speaks of vivacious life lived
solely within the mind.

The two are in conflict.
Always fighting, never won.
Always separate, never whole.
Never reconciled, never peace.
They cannot see, will not see
truth and lies undistinguished,
love and hate but passion alone.
One shall conquer; one shall lose.
But where the advantage?

A third sits, watching there.
Nameless one and soulless shell,
softly waiting, softly watching.
She judges, emotionless,
the war raging on and on.
She will side with the winner
only once they have won.
Until then, indifferent,
impartial observer.

Eden starves, slowly, surely,
betrayed by her own weakness.
No use, all rules…again.
Cadence thrives on structure.
Scaffolds rise, scaffolds fall,
evil structures of death
or life but death to Eden.

Death to Eden! Long live the
Cadence. Long life to the
typewriter. The instrument,
not violin or cello,
but voice to our queen. Death
to the phoenix, life to the
scorpion, Scorpio,
in the hollow desert sun.

Farewell to green, farewell
to verdancy, farewell to all
soft, living life replaced
by black, by white, by grey
in between the cracks in the mask.
Nothing is perfect but
some things are close enough
and some things are dead, dry, lost:
gone, gone forevermore,
never to return. I think
I will just go back to bed.



Version #2:
Meanwhile in Wonderland​

Two faces in a mirror.
One, blank and dull,
the other vivaciously full of life.
The first, with hair clipped short,
suit neatly ironed,
speaking in typewriter tone.
The second, long skeins of flowing curls,
swathed in soft hippie clothes with sandals,
mumbling and crying in all those
fabled foreign tongues.

They stare into each others’
eyes, between the lucid glass.
Not understanding,
never understanding another.
Lost within the looking glass.

The first, called Cadence,
is always on time and always
prepared with just the right words.
They are bone dry and dead
like King Tut’s tomb or
queenly toiletries from Lizzie One.
She doesn’t care, she shouldn’t.
The content is important but
the vehicle may rot.
She is eloquent like a Victorian tea party
and just as deadly prudish.

The second names herself Eden.
She flies freely from restraint, and sings
with words of joyous hyperbole
though she be late.
She gathers fine words like fruit
but has trouble making a tart. She dreams
of death like a phoenix
already in flame,
but she speaks of vivacious life lived
solely within the mind.

The two are in conflict.
Always fighting, never won.
Always separate, never whole.
Never reconciled, never peace.
They cannot see, will not see
truth and lies undistinguished,
love and hate but passion alone.
One shall conquer; one shall lose.
But where the advantage?

A third sits, watching there.
Nameless one and soulless shell,
softly waiting, softly watching.
She judges, emotionless,
the war raging on and on.
She will side with the winner
only once they have won.
Until then, indifferent, impartial observer.

Eden starves, slowly, surely,
betrayed by her own weakness.
No use, all rules…again.
Cadence thrives on structure.
Scaffolds rise, scaffolds fall,
evil structures of death or life
but death to Eden.

Death to Eden!
Long live the Cadence.
Long life to the typewriter.
The instrument,
not violin or cello,
but voice to our queen.
Death to the phoenix,
life to the scorpion, Scorpio,
in the hollow desert sun.

Farewell to green,
farewell to verdancy,
farewell to all soft, living life
replaced by black, by white,
by grey in between the cracks in the mask.
Nothing is perfect
but some things are close enough
and some things are dead, dry, lost:
gone, gone forevermore,
never to return.

I think
I will
just go
back to bed.