GAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
I'M STILL NOT HAPPY WITH THIS! PLEASE LEAVE CRITIQUE!
CRITQUE IT! CRITIQUE IT INTO THE GROUND!
The flow of this thing is just driving me nuts. I feel like gnawing my own fingers off in frustration.
I wrote this for a contest with the prompt, "color": "The theme is "Color". You can choose to write about one color, or many. You can describe a situation, person, object, scene - anything, but describe it in color(s). How it looks...makes you feel."
I decided to approach the prompt sort of like a painting. I suppose another title for this piece might be "A Study in Brown [and orange]". I'm worried I didn't quite address the prompt, though. Thoughts?
As usual, all comments appreciated. Enjoy!
"Hunger"
Fire in the wild isn't the color you think it is.
It's all amber and umber and
terra cotta, one great roaring tower of orange
like the Wrath of God in a chestnut tree.
I can't go back again to Devil's Hollow—
just like so many wolves he will wait,
until I am ready, blazing burnt sienna and shining,
all teeth.
But I'm not ready to give up the ghost yet,
I'm still waiting for an excuse
to travel the galaxy empty-handed.
I want to see those bronze nebulas
gleaming like forest fires.
Oh, lover—I have watched you swim volcanic craters,
have seen your flaming eyes amidst the snow drifts
all brown with dirt. Dragon, mine, you bring
the mists in the morning, set the roads to smoking
after the evening rains, and you came to me as
a henna dawn that time when I
opened my sleepy eyes.
But this really isn't about you, you know.
I am always hungry and like a forest fire
I am eating the cedar crowns brown and bare
just like me, and one day I will call you a fool
And then the sepia, crackling gods will return
from the ends of a caramel sky and race roaring
to meet the great wolf and his brother serpent
and I will go down to die in the heroes' hall,
and become russet, stinking, crow-picked
on the exhausted battlefields.
And then: my hunger at last will die ash-like
and I will not be left to gnaw on the whitewash bones
of the post-apocalyptic paradise, and I will leave you like a widow
tanned and sunburnt and empty of me, hungry on your own.
I'M STILL NOT HAPPY WITH THIS! PLEASE LEAVE CRITIQUE!
CRITQUE IT! CRITIQUE IT INTO THE GROUND!
The flow of this thing is just driving me nuts. I feel like gnawing my own fingers off in frustration.
I wrote this for a contest with the prompt, "color": "The theme is "Color". You can choose to write about one color, or many. You can describe a situation, person, object, scene - anything, but describe it in color(s). How it looks...makes you feel."
I decided to approach the prompt sort of like a painting. I suppose another title for this piece might be "A Study in Brown [and orange]". I'm worried I didn't quite address the prompt, though. Thoughts?
As usual, all comments appreciated. Enjoy!
"Hunger"
Fire in the wild isn't the color you think it is.
It's all amber and umber and
terra cotta, one great roaring tower of orange
like the Wrath of God in a chestnut tree.
I can't go back again to Devil's Hollow—
just like so many wolves he will wait,
until I am ready, blazing burnt sienna and shining,
all teeth.
But I'm not ready to give up the ghost yet,
I'm still waiting for an excuse
to travel the galaxy empty-handed.
I want to see those bronze nebulas
gleaming like forest fires.
Oh, lover—I have watched you swim volcanic craters,
have seen your flaming eyes amidst the snow drifts
all brown with dirt. Dragon, mine, you bring
the mists in the morning, set the roads to smoking
after the evening rains, and you came to me as
a henna dawn that time when I
opened my sleepy eyes.
But this really isn't about you, you know.
I am always hungry and like a forest fire
I am eating the cedar crowns brown and bare
just like me, and one day I will call you a fool
And then the sepia, crackling gods will return
from the ends of a caramel sky and race roaring
to meet the great wolf and his brother serpent
and I will go down to die in the heroes' hall,
and become russet, stinking, crow-picked
on the exhausted battlefields.
And then: my hunger at last will die ash-like
and I will not be left to gnaw on the whitewash bones
of the post-apocalyptic paradise, and I will leave you like a widow
tanned and sunburnt and empty of me, hungry on your own.
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