musicforwolves: a Sestina
Consider this a literary experiment, to see if the form has enough legs to include in a collection of writing exercises. It's one of the few forms that has made me, in the past, give up in despair, so it would be nice if it didn't suck right now.
musicforwolves: a Sestina
You ask me why I'm called musicforwolves.
I tell a story: something 'bout a film
I wrote where two young werewolves fall in love,
And then I mention how I can't decide
What song is playing when we fade to black -
A feeling that I can't put down in words.
Or, maybe, as you read my shaky words,
You think about a boy who dreams of wolves
That reach for him with claws scraped sharp, and black
Trees huddled in the moon. It's like a film
Where something vicious hovers just outside
The frame, and tempts with promises of love.
Perhaps I tell a tale about my love
Of fictions; empty worlds painted with words
And characters I want to play: one side
With knights, the other army made of wolves.
My love of song and stories cast on film,
The phrase of fire holding off the black.
A word (could be a lie) about the black
Dog of depression taking all my love
And weighting it with stones; playing a film
Where I am mute but shaking with the words
I cannot say. He fed me to the wolves;
They slashed my throat, and something stilled inside.
All this, and more: there's something else beside
Those other explanations, white on black
Typed for the quiet amusement of the wolves.
It's this: I write for fandom, and the love
Of herding thoughts under my pen as words.
Perhaps I heard an album, saw a film
And now my brain has grappled with the film,
And I am duty-bound to pick a side,
Trying to appease the wolves with words
Made song. With my piano, in the black-
night forests of your mind, I tune my love.
So take my music. Play it for your wolves.
Although my words were spent to write a film,
The real wolves are resting by my side.
The stage is black. I'm talking of my love.