found poetry, if you know where to look

[maichirona]

from the datasphere, by Old Possum (italics Mai-n)

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour

Comments

[anonymous]

We like your version better. Retrieving fertility out of... what do you call it, again, decay? You're getting more like us every day. Would you like to dust the mantle again to celebrate? Expect us soon, 6ut know we always watch over you unseen. You will find a new 6au6le on your bedroom shelf. It doesn't really exist, 6ut we know you'll still 6e very fond of it. You'll have to o6tain the matching accessories on your own. Don't get too exu6erant when you're wearing it - it can 6e very confining!

-- your adoring sisters

[maichirona]

*smiles dreamily, her eyes staring out into space with a slightly vacant expression*

Thank you, my sweet (pretty) sisters. I will (remember?forget?remember?) treasure it.

I want to be exactly like you.

*picks up the single ostrich feather and begins stroking it lazily over the exposed parts of her body, eyes closing, lips parting*

Soo...pretty. Soo...sweet. Purrfect pixie pony sisters.

*tosses the feather away, and begins caressing herself with practiced hands, cheeks flushed*

Coming to me, soon. Coming...