It's Manic Monday and I nearly forgot (the last few days have blurred together)!
This week's mania is...
Metrophobia-- the fear of poetry.
Here's my thought on it...
He was humming in that signature sing-song way of his. The same rhythm, the same tone, the same... Dammit. The most she knew about song and poetry was what she didn't like. And after hearing twenty-three of his inspired (insipid) poems written expressly for her, she knew she didn't like a bit of them.
And if the rumors were true, tonight he would regale a room full of society's finest with a twelve-page ballad illuminating her many virtues. In couplet after miserably rhyming couplet. The footsteps drew nearer and she held her breath and closed her eyes--wishing she was anywhere but here.
There was a rustle and she knew he was shuffling papers. A pause--he was wiping the perspiration from his wide and furrowed brow and running a now-damp hand through his thinning hair. She shivered and dug her fingernails into the wood boards behind her, summoning silence.
"The beauty of your countenance glimmers in your eyes
The color of your irises as blue as cloudless skies.
The sun shines brightly on your hair's soft curls so golden,
To you my heart and soul shall ever feel beholden..."
The sound grew mercifully softer as the noise of his footfalls faded and he traveled away down the hall, still hunting for his muse.
She gasped and fanned herself. Her heart raced and she felt as if she might swoon, dropping straight to the polished oak floor. How much longer could she avoid him and his horrible poems on their sweat-stained, crinkling papers? She grabbed her broad skirts and, lifting them to expose her dainty shoes and trim ankles, dashed down the hall, feeling as if rhyming words chased her, singing out the most trivial aspects of her life in a most annoying way. As much as she adored high society, literature and the arts, she felt she was quickly becoming metrophobic.
Have a great week!