A man clad in garments of obviously polythremian origin steps in front of the crowd.
"Friends, fellow writers and poets, spectators and of course Mister Pages, who provided this location we use for this gathering, welcome to Poetry Night!
Here we can read our newest works to impress the public and upstage our rivals. Here we shall exchange ART!"
His eyes get a mad look when he says the last word and his clothing begins to rustle excitedly, but soon he and his wardrobe have calmed down, and he continues.
"Before we begin, I would like to remind you that a warning is needed before reciting works including Correspondence sigils. I doubt anyone here would want to see them, let alone hear their spoken form. Everything else is fair game, though. I shall begin."
With this, the man pulls a scroll out of his pocket, unrolls it and begins to declaim.
On rooftops high, in streets below
A pair of duelists fights,
With blackest ribbons in their tow
They find truest delights.
Exchange their blows, are caught within
A martial, deadly dance,
One yearns for death, one for the win,
Both strive for dominance.
She hails from east, her eyes are slant,
Her hair of darkest black.
It’s unknown why she left her land
Or why she won’t go back.
He is not native to the Neath
But came from surface bright.
He died, so he shall never leave
To once more see the light.
Their blades, they cross, their wills, they clash,
Their speed increases fast.
They run and strike, evade and dash,
But this can never last.
For while he’s quick and strong and smart
He’s more than even matched.
So deep inside his cunning heart
A desperate plan is hatched.
While her next strike his earlobe clips
His swipe goes far amiss.
Instead he plants upon her lips
A long, passionate kiss.
But while he planned to kill her dead
While she’s distracted still
He realizes with rising dread
He won’t go for the kill.
And for a moment, all is well.
They do not move an inch
And when she stabs him in the heart
He does not even flinch.
He dies, he falls, she waits, then flees
Later he wakes, still sore
But what the true conundrum is
Who does regret it more?"
He takes a deep breath while the audience applauds.
"Well", he says, "Who’s next?"
edited by Curious Foreigner on 11/10/2013