He has a way with words, this one. He can take words and mold them like clay into castles and dragons and wonders upon wonders. He can make them flow like a waterfall, crashing and tumbling down jagged cliff faces, or trickling through crevices in the rocks. He can sell a rawhide bone to a cat, or a scratching post to a dog. One day, he will make you think he can fly; the next day, he will make you believe you never thought so.
To him, everything is poetry. The laughter of the linnet is a limerick, the scurrying of the squirrel a sonnet, the baying of the bloodhound a ballad. There is rhythm in the rushing river, and rhyme in the roaring rain. Song in the shining sun, dance in the darkest depths. And all of these, every single one of these, he takes and puts into words. Haunting words, lilting words, sweet words, bitter words. And he weaves them together into verse, or knits them into prose.
But there are certain things that have no form or figure. That are too vast and infinite for words to do justice to. That are too strange and mysterious for a poem to capture.
Love.
Enchanting and alluring, it has turned dreamers into poets and poets into madmen. How many verses have been written on the power of love? Its heartrending despair? Its exuberant joy? Its wondrous, terrible, unfathomable mystery? And, still, how many more will still be written long after we are gone? It is as if the works of the poets are never sufficient, never satisfactory.
AppleJack tries. He writes of that entrancing magenta fur, that long glorious silky tail, those eyes whose depths he always gets lost in. And the one word: Gemini. He takes it and he examines it, from top to toe and head to tail, but he cannot for the life of him begin to scratch the surface of it. Still, he pours his heart out into the page, letting it flood every letter he writes - and his words swell with it, red and thick and pulsing.
And in every poem, he places a fragment of his soul. It is fragile and tender. Handle with care.
To him, everything is poetry. The laughter of the linnet is a limerick, the scurrying of the squirrel a sonnet, the baying of the bloodhound a ballad. There is rhythm in the rushing river, and rhyme in the roaring rain. Song in the shining sun, dance in the darkest depths. And all of these, every single one of these, he takes and puts into words. Haunting words, lilting words, sweet words, bitter words. And he weaves them together into verse, or knits them into prose.
But there are certain things that have no form or figure. That are too vast and infinite for words to do justice to. That are too strange and mysterious for a poem to capture.
Love.
Enchanting and alluring, it has turned dreamers into poets and poets into madmen. How many verses have been written on the power of love? Its heartrending despair? Its exuberant joy? Its wondrous, terrible, unfathomable mystery? And, still, how many more will still be written long after we are gone? It is as if the works of the poets are never sufficient, never satisfactory.
AppleJack tries. He writes of that entrancing magenta fur, that long glorious silky tail, those eyes whose depths he always gets lost in. And the one word: Gemini. He takes it and he examines it, from top to toe and head to tail, but he cannot for the life of him begin to scratch the surface of it. Still, he pours his heart out into the page, letting it flood every letter he writes - and his words swell with it, red and thick and pulsing.
And in every poem, he places a fragment of his soul. It is fragile and tender. Handle with care.
Bio by Tar #1249086