De La Grande Bibliotheque de Tamriel
By Lector Trivura A selection of poetry written during a creative thought initiative
As an ongoing experiment to strengthen the academic integrity of our younger apostles, an initiative of the abstract concept of "creative thought" was undergone. As all calculable results continued to prove inconclusive, the project was deemed unsuccessful after a six-week trial. Here is a selection of the poetry that resulted from this initiative, collected for future analysis.
***
An Ode to a Factotum
The brass body of your gleaming unit
The functions with which you operate
All set in perfect regulation
Which you'll gladly state
You clean our streets and sell our wares
Manage our registries and dead
You cook our meals and run our banks
All these functions in your head!
But from where are you created
By our all-knowing Lord Seht?
Why can we not enter those chambers
Did he lock them and forget?
But we Apostles know the truth
For silence gives birth to the intrepid mind
Mysteries are created to be solved So I will unlock the riddles of your kind!
***
The Wrong Numbers
I know that in a fortnight
The market's prices will rise
And I know where to go
To find the most sturdy surprise
My head is filled with numbers
But they're all simply wrong
They're prices and people and sales
I know they don't belong
I should think of the numbers
That tell of order and sequence
But they refuse to stay for long
And they only make me tense!
I want to be an apostle
Who can make my family proud
But all these wrong numbers
They're all that I'm allowed
***
A Soaking Bed
Musty sheets on a soaking bed
They smell of mold and oil
My sister keeps coughing at night
I can't help her, I'm useless
I've always just been useless
Magic gathers in my hands one day
Warm and bright and filled with hope
And every day I study the machines
Their cogs and gears and parts
I learn their secrets eagerly
I'm finally noticed, I'm finally free
I enter into the world above
I study and listen and do as I'm told
A new name for my new life
I will walk this path before me
Whispers follow me but I do not listen
I'm now a stranger in my childhood home
I know it's selfish not to return
But the memories linger of that soaking bed
Of that endless cough I cannot ease
Note: The last poem in this collection does not follow the required rhyming pattern which poetry entails. Still, in the interest of generating free expression and the creative process; it was found to be acceptable within the given parameters
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