A scrap of paper, written front and back

Untitled, by Adham ap Otis

Anne: The words were bold on your tongue,
Now dried and o'er used, too much in the sun,
Passionate light has dried them good.
Might you speak those words again?
Could you,
Would you,
Just once more?

Wessire: With the dawn, each day seems wronged,
Light jigs and dances 'round,
But I've no heart to be found.
The oncoming of night steals over, cold and right.
I may have loved, and held you tight,
But no more - not again - there is no 'might'.

The oncoming of night... horrible, horrible line. I might as well talk about asphyxiation on black shades and wights. Wights... that's good. Wights.

(Written to the side) In the shade which serves me right, I'll make love with a blackened wight, for I may have loved, and held you tight, but no more, never again, there is no 'might'.

Better. Wessire - where did I come up with the name? Maybe I'll change it.

I don't usually spend my time frequenting taverns, I leave it to the drunks and whores (sister sister, oh sister mine), but it's been a great supply of scraps. Little pieces that I can continue to write on, and also a great supply of great annoyance. Do -all- women act like that? Masks of makeups, armor over a conscience. Does it even feel anymore, or like a smith's stone in wartime; overused? Mother would never act like that. She was as pure as Cymur's flame in matters of the heart. Oh, mother...

She was nobility. The silk and finery gives them the right to do whatever they want, with enough gold leftover to bribe the God's forgiveness. It was that, the simple fact that kept my tongue held back. Cowardly as always Adham, coward for not speaking, not snapping them out of their charade, not breaking their masks over a bent knee.

23rd, End of Spring, 1087