As the night drew on, the recitals and speeches drawing to a close from the mouths from the fair ladies of court, Thomas had itched to join them on stage. For his life’s spirit, his very soul, seemed unsatisfied by playing the audience when he could spill forth with the poems that had emboldened his being, the published and the rejected, the sentences and full stanzas laying dormant in his books — so, before long, he found himself a place among the last luls of celebration, a hand put to his chest as he recalled something by Aeschylus.
“O’Zeus,” he began, “who’ever thou be, if that name please thee well, by that I call on thee, for weighing all things else I fail to tell, of any name but Zeus, if once for all I seek — of all my haunting, troubled thoughts a truce, that name I still must speak,” he performed, his eyes alight with pride, though his audience seemed of a scant quality compared to the one hushed together to have watched the women. Whilst collecting himself, he met the eye of a man he knew in some manner. A husband to a niece of his wife, perhaps. As he settled on the costume, with his eyes flared with another stanza, he approached, his smile wide and welcoming as he himself stood tall in his Zeus-like appearance.
“Here was the wondrous mine of souls, like silent silver ore they moved, in veins through its darkness… Among roots… The blood welled up that flows to the humans, something as heavy as porphyry in the dark. Nothing else was red!” He exclaimed, a hand put to his heart, his attention then sought. “A poem for Orpheus! And where is your fair Eurydice?” Thomas asked. @cxvxndish
