Snow: as blank as one’s malnourished glare strolls
Through its’ courtyard of embittered forks of
Maliciousness and warps itself into
Another’s frolicful play amongst cold
And portentous bites of atrocity
Alas, it ends its allure of devilry
By twining its claws with the vain wooden
Hands of nature and letting itself melt
Into puddles of envious rage, for
It’s now that you waltz in your own fury
This letter conveys the event of when Claudio hurt Hero, during a wedding, from the play: Much Ado About Nothing, written by William Shakespeare. This was written from the perspective of a worker eavesdropping on the occurences.
What a marvel would’ve dawned if you frolicked amongst these blood-pounced fields, Alas, it all commenced when spellbounding Hero sauntered into the grandiose rays of her marriage, as it mimicked inside of her. Crystal clear, it was, that every speck of twining spring took over her veins, so scintillate that it looked as if she was a star of honey and had just pirouetted with heaven of such unthinkable pulchritude. Oh, and her dress! Her resplendent dress vibrated with laughter of bouquets upon rose pearls: Every stitch crooned with felicity, whilst her eyes irradiated every lingering, sombre rasp, within her clutch.
Thou shan’t believe this, but Leonato stroke the mirthful wedding with sudden gusts of haste; He would not, even, allow dear Claudio enunciate his responses to Friar Francis. Away with my endearing daughter’s marriage, the acts of him seemed to echo of. With these passing ticks of time, I have, indeed, grasped the realization of that Leonato has no intimacy for for his only offspring and neither does the misread Claudio. This notice shan’t have touched me, if only Claudio dwindled his slashes of rebellion upon Hero. He, even, claimed that angelic Hero knew the heat of a luxurious bed, he did, and for that, every simmering slander, solely gouged wounds into her pulchritude and dignity. The murders in Claudios rage assassinated the croons and very dawn of Hero’s mirth, whilst the beast battered her cascade of heaven. As his claws grazed further into her spring-seeped veins, that day, she fell into a slumber upon an ominous and inky sleep, like no other.
No ambiguity tempted to pounce, for I knew that only a lady with such defiance could’ve seethed her overwhelm into the very roots of pearled laughter. Thou well know that it is me, who clayed and shattered thoughts for twenty years in these rose beds, and heard the very ticking of the blood red clock sitting next to me; And it is me who saw the innocence and purity germinate inside of Hero, hence I shan’t warp my mind into Claudio’s.
Oh Elizabeth, come, my friend, for the stars seem to perish with Hero, as she abides the newcomer of spring grime, whilst enchantment mourns her decease. Patent, it is that she cries in her death of honey and it is, only, Claudio that may awaken her and the rest of my kind. Alas, it is not to be, so thou shall come soon?
Under the horizon, the lull of spring
Waltzed into fluttering upon blessed gold
Rose ivy of a mirthful jewelled ring
Purred a tune upon pained red lace it told
For the beast of winter had dawned its wing
And its witch cursed claws are yet to be sold
To the leaves of the stars combined to cling
So, dare not let their fantasy bloom old
This is another one of my poems and it uses iambic pentameter, a volta and enjambment.
Shan’t the hapless quarrel of blood ebb and dye away the mess?
And shan’t the hap dawn rest?
For hatred shall grow into the sun
And its’ spring flowers shall finesse
Now that I have listened with close ears
The ivy of mirth has purred into my tears
For its’ elfin enchantment had done its deed and more
So, wait under the moonlight, and the rose shall stand with grace
And under the moon-lit night, the rose shall waltz with blood red lace
Alas, ’tis the wondrous moon of Lahore
It simply callous here! It is as if I’m being fed with despicable rot. The place has splotched my sun of spring that used to blossom and bloom with ivy of light and bless. Alas, it’s all sunk into the everlasting blankness and as the monotony of the today’s and tomorrow’s, in the witch-like city, London, assassinate the spellbound symphonies of the dear Caribbean. The pixie dust in me just seems to tarnish away like rust in time, whilst my darling youth drowns in meandering tears of soot.
It is only when I imprison myself into dreams, that I can truly flutter back to life in the Caribbean, for the fiendish clock of stone that sleeps next to me, this very moment, stops the moon and its stars from emanating and reflecting my sun. Though when I do purr into my dreams, chandeliers of turquoise, aqua curls glister daisies of mirth on my skin. And, there I’m with you just gazing at the waterfalls of endless hue, hauling felicity onto us, whilst the cordial and blithe symphonies of the debonair sea birds waltz into the wonder of it all.
However, it all vanishes, turning another vein of mine into rock, when the portentous morning paints its beastly, fiery scars into my ”mind; It’s reaching me, so hurry Fred, before all of me is warped into stone…
This is my interpretation of the poem, Island Man, in the form of a letter to one of his, made-up, companions named, Fred.
Welcome back to my blog! Its always a pleasure to meet you again :)This post is about a letter from the perspective of Tommo (from Private Peaceful) to his mother during the time of war.
My dearest mother,
I miss you terribly. Ghastly news is all that has been hovering around me these loathsomely dread stricken today’s and tommorow’s. Just last Monday, we fought. We fought against the merciless beasts. Alas, Pete died. The last time I set eyes on him, blood was curdling out of his bare skin whilst body was being engraved into my innocent mind. Still, its impenetrable darkness lingers. I could hear gun shots as death defying as seething blood, that day. Never could escape it, not even once. Even,every second that has ticked its way through the day hear menacing gun shots too.The number who have heard them are countless just like the lifeless soldiers who ricocheted out of this world like memories made of sand.
Despite this, you wouldn’t believe me if i told you this but, I killed one of the soldiers from Belgium.The stench of remorse still murders my nostrils meanwhile, continuous lumps of dread assassinate my taste buds. How is my moribund soul supposed to scarper away from all of these ruthless and cold- blooded deeds? Unthinkable, the answer is.
Besides me and my ceaseless and grotesque horrors, I cant conceptualize the spidery claws of agony slice through his unarmed veins vigorously. In days ticking by, tears of rue still splash my dirt coated cheeks for my unforgivable act. Regrettably, the sound of throes that anguished the long gone soldier preys on me every wakeful night like demented wolves. Murderers, they are.
However alarming this may seem, I love you and Charlie is right , the war will be prevailed over. I’ll be back with not a single scar painted on my face and not a glimpse of pang shall be cast on my eye. I will be home safe and sound. Give endless love from me to Tommo. Just you wait and see, he will be prince of our town.
Your son, Tommo
Welcome fellow earthlings to my one and only (*drum role ) blog!!
My name is Azka and I am 12 years old. I just looooovvve english; The passion of it just cant stop fulminating through my veins, whilst its spellbound spring blossoms a heaven of relish into my my hand. And as I write, it feels as if my imagination germinates onto words to form a whole other universe. Its just magic.