Taking everything in, the rolling hills, the hues of gold and crimson that have been splattered across the countryside by Fall’s arrival. This is what home is. This is what brings breath to the rhythm of evening’s tide, this breeze, is what whisks away the suffocating apprehension, this is where I forget what it means to be a slave to a society trapped in unyielding monotony, and the crisp air brings clarity with each puff of life. This is a place of beauty, a place of freedom, a place of wondrously apathetic inspiration, flowing with the peace and grace of human thought in lulled simplicity.
December 18, 2013
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Authors note: This is free form, calling it poetry might be a stretch. Might be, and by might I mean not at all. Poetry is flowing of thought, beauty of language, swelling of human emotion, release of pain. Poetry is whatever you want it to be, and that's why I hold it so dear. No form, no rule can hold poetry to its pitiful standards, and the moment poetry's wings are clipped by the blind attacks of ignorant fools, hellbent on tearing apart the creativity and beauty that forever floats above their grasp, is the moment I will cease to find joy in the warm rays of sun breaking crisp air on winter morns.
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Absolutely is poetry. So beautiful. Your sentence structure is what makes this piece: rolling like the hills, floating along, capturing that that somehow apathetic sense of peace. Love it. Great work Evan.
ReplyDeleteThis reminds me a lot of the "stream of consciousness" journal entries Mr. Johnson would make us do back in 8th grade advanced language arts. No real story, just the flow. Very pretty. Your author's note is exceptional as well: I almost think parts of it could have been in the piece itself. You definitely have a unique flow to your sentences, almost like rocks skipping over water or something of the sort--effortless and gently bouncing. Nice work!
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