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Poetry Threads
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Poetry Threads
Here liveth a damsel under the spell of The Evil Lordling. She had approached him kindly enough, but stumbled and alerted the sentries, unable to fulfill her purpose to take a peek at his writings. Stealth, one of the Evil Master’s best apprentices, whispered with the force of the ten winds, something living had come from the world of women and men and children to browse Evil’s workings of words and to perhaps steal the titles. Straightwith, she was arrested, parchment covered in letters falling from her pockets. His Evilness ordered her bound with gossamer threads woven with steel ropes smelted and fashioned from all things living. The world was dimmed for three days, as the bonds tightened, yet the sun rose and the moon set and the world recovered a piece of its breathing, but direly missed the damsel who used to walk beneath them. Lonely for the aesthetics, they mostly missed her songs.
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It was not long until the moon decided to have mercy on the captured maiden and her rant was thunderous. Intervention became inevitable when Cassiopeia explained to Orion that the mind of the maiden owned a poetic bent and would not be contained. Relentless as a star shooting across the heavens of Earth, word got around. Gossiping constellations are common as comets in Orion’s neighborhood. They are busy as proverbial bunnies and liars that have their own scandals to live up to, but life is so boring so far from the only planet boasting emotion moving articulate forms, and resistance was futile. The tale grew with each telling, so much so that the skies, infected with the damsel’s sighs, unloosed tidal waves of creativity. Circumstance made it difficult to keep the original version accurate for all the editing that transpired. Our Lady Bard Yet Unpublished, was totally unaware of her fame among the mighty or the assistance they each vowed to provide their new found princess of potential poemistry.
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Everyone knows that moon beam magic is a lively and well known aphrodisiac, but it also has an unusual affect on bonds made from lifestrands that when used sparingly are best utilized as tinsel strengthed steel of gossamer line and verse worthy width to hold audiences captive. Six attempts to free the lady failed. The North Star looked on amazed. Never had the necromancer’s spell been used to free and faulter. More myths bled from the Lordling’s lair. Some stray servants had loosed a telling of such fantasy that few could resist hearing of the infamous capture and entrapment of what used to be Life in the form of the luckless female. Life liked her, it was frequently felt, but the bonds held.
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Orion stretched mighty limbs then drank deep from the Great Bear’s cup full of several versions of the captivity epic. He ladled a few drops of ambrosia down to the slab where the close to life like used a rock for her rest. Unaccustomed to lying flat so long, she turned one heel South and the nectar pool flowed with finesse and was absorbed by gossamer thin steel that, as it turned out, loved the taste of nectar found only in the fountains of the Big Ladel. The feet were liberated instantly. Napping, The Mighty Lordling cracked open his left lid to see this new thing that had entered his realms. The ground shook and it rained on Earth dawn to sunfall, causing human bards and scops to write copiously of the trouble brewing in the clouds.
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The thing about Life that once existed, is that being so like life it is usually employed in the past tenses. Once, long ago, and beyond memory best described such animate entities. In truth, Life was called Lived. Eventually, the damsel roused with an ether like glow that never extinguished, which is to say never longer, a least, than a blink of the Devil Lordling’s left eyelid. Evil opened the right eye and focused. So, the problem remained. And the question. Why did Orion only send three drops and how to get the elixir to the rope steel binding the damsel to the rock at the waist and hands and throat? Where are all those pixies and fairies and elves when you need them, is what I say.
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There has never been a life like this one and Ursa Minor wept to see the kernel of ideating rhymes and images forming in the creative matrices of the lass with no effective means of circumnavigating the block. No one expected the Eviling to move, but he did so as if life like, failing to intercept the falling crystalline liquid from the edge of the Little Bear’s ladel. Smiling, Thor observed Ursa Major’s alarm turn to pride. Celebratory Poseidon crashed the land with his trident sending stupendous swells of water shoreside. Gaia howled and Aphrodite practiced archery on Titan who fell in love, sufficient enough to cause the heavens to cooperate with Fate, giving birth to severn entirely new ideas. Aries nodded Orion thanks, Ursa Prima gave homage to Ursa Minor. Thunder, sent by Odin before the world was newly filled with living likenesses of damsels of poetic apptitudinal abilities, rolled across the universe prophetically. The bonds snapped when the elyxir graced the gossamer threads of titanium strength and freedom visited the lair of the Lordling, uncursing the spell, unbinding the life that still had worldly use, if you will, to be. Hands freed, the maiden of clear voice and unguarded throat, chipped a line of verse on her captivity’s bedrock, using the lamenting Evil Lordling’s blade adding proverbial insult to injure dastardly desire.
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There was no real hero to steal into the den and free the damsel. No lad with love in his wholeness big enough to challenge ogre and big problem Lordlings who are helpless to defeat him, being a hero and all. No kiss, no magic beans in a sack or the like aided anyone. That used to be the case when life was simpler, living in a simpler version of itself. Subsistence of life uses had been existentially exaggerated. Therefore, there is no moral to this telling. Life used to be in likeness to actuality used to be fairly acclaimed as lively. Unpracticed, the reputation and image faded. Men have no power against feminine survival abilities, so no save the day ending occurred. To describe the ending as life-giving would be stretching the point, but then we are dealing with a poet-damsel newly unlatched. Extreme stretching has been a perpetual habit. And if there was a moral to this story, it would have been: Consult the myths and recitations of yore and the scratching of the poet who wrote this tale for theme and a neat wrap up. In some circles, it is generally agreed that life used to be lifelike, but that is another epic that exists only in fragments. Scholars agree that evidence exists to prove the precise and most prevalent characteristic of life gone from the histories, but it is wild and frivolously speculation based entirely upon cautionary conjecture.
~ finis ~
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