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In stories, I need more goopy darkness and mardigras waterbending shit in life and I've been working on a story with such a thing in them but I was curious what lit might have to say about this. I'm not sure how any of you feel about Avatar the Last Airbender or Korra, but you certainly don't have to have watched those or appreciate them to understand what I'm getting at. I was thinking of a genuine spiritual darkness at the heart of the swamp with songs as a heavy part of their culture. Some songs everyone knows, others are more exclusive to certain kinds of spiritual warriors maybe. Here, I'll just paste some shit, along with some poems you're free to shit on/give feedback for/provide alternative creative suggestions, etc:
There are swamp benders who get their power from a old force that lurks beneath the mire and only imparts her gift to those she infects with a psychedelic disease.
Also, these infected fuckers roam the swamp, can't be near the community for obvious reasons. As they wander through the swamp they sing songs to Mora to appease her and in exchange get their power with which they defend their people from the ocean civilization that is taking over the world. It is a theme to them to remind themselves and the world that the mire, because of mora and the void, is deeper than the sea.
Each of these songs are sung in a different context and are only examples of such contextual usage. The first one is a song that is known by all of the swamp people and is a part of their lore. the second is a sort of pre-battle chant with an individual lilt. The last one is a song that is intended only for mora's ears and isn't allowed to be heard by anyone else.
Now, you might argue that you need to know more about the story before you can understand the poems, but that's the opposite of the way I'm approaching this creation. I'm building the world up through these poems and the prose will follow, linking them and their themes more concretely as well as providing an over-narrative that will make the immediacy of these poems more visceral. Hopefully.
Water, sleep
Mora keeps
Twilight breathes
shadows slink
Through the reeds
Eyes design
Mire, it finds
Mora's sighs
Molding light
Cold and fire
Such is night
Such is life
Which Mora binds
Memory serves
A mirror's curse
The void, it lurks
Beneath the surf
The mire, it dreams
Mora clings,
How she thirsts
By her need
Did we learn
Mora keeps
The water leaps
Visions gleam
In song and verse
Iron freed, spring from earth
Deep in stone
The witch, she grows
When it's coaxed
Stars there flow
From bones of old
That Mora broke
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Moons call and search
Mire moans and turns
The hurt, we first burned
While the surface lurched
For the third person urn
Mora keeps and murmurs
"Drowned notions hold token hunters"
"None die without knowing wonder"
"Nets cast around summer
Close fast without motion hunger"
Dance marches the marsh lunger
Into the madness clasp
Where water claps thunder
Against the leaves of the table king
From the seas of grief lovers
Where day feeds book thumpers
And darkness is an art trumpet
Come to enlarge the heart farcers
With mummer carts and hard arteries
But
She sees martyr cartilage
Seethes with tarter larderies
So water harpies scream heartily
As we howl partingly
The mire guard fiends, gargling
Unleashes the emptiness beneath our feet
At least She sets us free
So does Mora keep
Along the bog and sodden loam
The smell of rot teased my nose
They said I'd know, diseased I've grown
No one told me about the hole
A little cloud to call your own
A void of doubt inside your soul
That won't go out, no matter though
Mora, she weeps with me again
She takes my need, she gives me hints
Yes darkness calls, there's light in it
Do not look down, no look below
Look deeper than the Ocean Throne
Iron and tense, hold your own
Give parting gifts to closest friends
Your family though, they've got to cleanse
The grief and fear, don't let it mold
The witch she keeps, but she is cold
The price is high for letting go
So hug them tight, you never know
The fire's bright, you might come home
By the story that mora wrote
Into the bones beneath our home
There the stony shore sloped to gold
Of summer stars where winter blowed
The lunger there whose seeds we grow
Of the runner and the hunter both
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I should have included descriptive headers but you can easily parse where one poem ends and the other begins based on style. Look forward to hearing back from /lit/.
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I may have replied if you hadn't cursed in the first sentence.
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>>8410961
Wow you're a bitch
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