biscuits.

Waiting

Three hands knock
At patience’s door.
One hand most eager;
Stubborn and Nagging.
Maddening and infuriating.
It swings at sanity’s window.

The index finger stomps
Mindlessly. Strung with
Threads of impatient fury.
The three hands have me
Like a master puppeteer.
Like an expert hypnotist:
Mesmerizing. Manipulating
An unconscious and hidden
Glass-thin rage.

The three hands break me
With a heavy tick.
And a heavier -tock.
Within one minute,
Insanity caught me
On the face of this Clock.

Anonymous asked: Why hello there fellow Musketeer ;) I like your latest post! Did you write it yourself?

Hi! That I did! :) thank you hehe, of the three, or four if you like, which one are you?

Boy

He listens. Many creatures surround him, breathing and moving quietly. He can barely hear them. Some are asleep with calm and predictable breaths. Others, dwelling in the dark have breaths hastened by the strenuous strain of the forest’s hurdles. Somewhere in the distance soft and quiet familiar steps press against the damp forest floor. He has found his prey. 

The trees sway and groan and complain, for the night is young and they dread the long ruling of the moon. He breathes. The thickness of the still air is full of life. The damp smell of leaves, shrubs, moss, and fur riot in this air. Traces of squashed and half-eaten fruits and berries hide in the forest’s mist as mixed fragrances. Forgive me, for all of this is soon to be stained with blood. He thought, knowing that the spirits of the forest are watching.

He breathes slowly and in time with the rustle of the leaves; the prey must not hear him. 

He looks. Rays of moonlight pierce through the uneasy leaves of trees, old and new. The brightness of the moon is dulled and dimmed by the forest. For him, it is more than enough light to see his target. I am ready he thought to himself, Father has taught me well. With this hunt, I will gain my honor as a man. 

Not making the slightest hint of sound, he takes his bow from his back.  As both hands hold the bow above his head, like a sword curved out beside him, he slowly runs his left hand down towards the centre of the bow. His grip tightens. He listens once more. Soft, louder steps draw nearer from the distance. His right hand retrieves an arrow from his waist. He breathes deeply, taming the slight quiver in his breathing. The warmth of his breath billows in the cold damp air in front of him. Gently, he places the arrow on his bow. As he looks upon the tip of the arrow, the words of his Father echo in his mind: “Along with your arrow, you shall release your soul as a boy. With the hunt, you will gain the soul of a man.” 

I am ready. He pulls the arrow back. The wood creaks as his prey steps into view. Unaware of his presence, it lingers, sniffing and searching for a trail. I am ready He thought, as if convincing himself. His heart beats louder. I am ready. He closes his eyes. He can feel his prey stepping closer and closer into his aim. 

The arrow is released. Once asleep and still in his hand, it was now wild and full of life. Its breath, hisses through the air. An arrow’s life is short, but many. Its flight, so graceful and without flaw, is short-lived. The arrow dies with a thud, along with his prey. He is ready.