To be honest I'm not sure if "rimous" (or the variation, rimose) is even a word. It supposedly means "full of cracks, fissures or crevices"; and it rhymes with famous - I can forgive its imperfections for the poetic paralipsis. I could feel. Everything. Every pupil. Every eye piercing the obscurity of tears: a mangled assortment of water, salt, molecules, atoms - essence. And then they pierced me. I stood at the door, with the weakly smiling faces of the departed turned in yearning. They were willing me forward - welcoming, in their mind. In mine, they were hunters watching a deer step into the crosshairs.
I wish I strode; I wish I could launch myself down the aisle, pushing through the musk of the ages; through the myth, the doubt, the repentance; but I couldn't. Confidence, unfortunately, was not a virtue. Chastity, Temperance, Charity, Diligence, Patience, Kindness, Humility; these were teachings of passiveness - waiting, reacting. Now with no action, no reason for anything, the gaunt people just sat there, staring. Waiting for an answer, or perhaps just entertainment.
The minstrel's chords rose in alternating beauty, then fell to a shuddering whisper - it felt like a moment, but I was already standing behind the podium. I looked nervously around the room, resting my notes on the stand before fully appreciating its grandeur. It was carved in oak; a stable column with wings extending from the top - a homage to archangels and doves and all things free and holy. It felt shameful using the rigid faux-feathers as a platform for my papers. Perhaps if I wrote less, the podium would feel freedom once again.
I began to speak - telling what I had been told. Saying what had already been written.
As I spoke, my thoughts escaped the trap, circled the ageless cathedral and fell at the feet of the podium. It was so beautiful; an angel in its own right. With the potential to soar, to leave everything behind and seek... anything. Just fly. But it stood where I was, grounded by its purpose - its reason for creation. I looked down and smiled.
Footnote.
The idea for this one is odd. Too odd to describe, honestly. Nothing my trusty footnotes can't elucidate.
This ditty is from the perspective of a poor man who I am bloody thankful not to be, and concerns destiny.
I'm not sure if I believe in destiny. Perhaps it exists. Perhaps you can't escape it. But I don't think you can ever know what it is. I don't think you should know what it is; it would ruin the opportunity to do what you want until that moment of fate.
Ha. I guess that's where you were those 18 years.
Delirious Ethan..
