“Oh, who can ever say with poetry?” Phyri tossed out glibly, with a wave of her hand to encompass life, truth, everything. Poetry was a muddier water than most forms of literary endeavour, and no shallow pool. One never quite knew what might be fished up from its deepest fathoms until the words were written. (And sometimes one still did not know, even then.)
Perhaps she could go on a fishing trip with her father tomorrow. That might turn up the muse. For now, though – Porphyria threw herself into step with Eavan Miller, thankful that Bastien was getting underfoot to slow her down else she might have found herself markedly impatient at a pregnant woman’s pace, or lack thereof. “But yes, the aviary,” she said with a sigh, and then glanced sidelong at the redhead, wondering whether she would understand or merely think her unhinged. “Every so often, I miss being a bird.”
Perhaps she could go on a fishing trip with her father tomorrow. That might turn up the muse. For now, though – Porphyria threw herself into step with Eavan Miller, thankful that Bastien was getting underfoot to slow her down else she might have found herself markedly impatient at a pregnant woman’s pace, or lack thereof. “But yes, the aviary,” she said with a sigh, and then glanced sidelong at the redhead, wondering whether she would understand or merely think her unhinged. “Every so often, I miss being a bird.”
a sublime set by Lady! <3