So, I'm testing a theory. A teacher told me this was almost like poetry. I split up sentences and paragraphs into lines and stanzas. Now, could you read this as (good) poetry? Since a lot of the time that seems to be a major difference between poetry and prose. Also, it would mean that I could enter a certain competition twice, once with another piece of prose, and then with this masquerading as poetry... Hahahah. Indulge me.
The wind wafts, gentle,
but firmly chilling,
An unwitting reminder to those hapless, earth-bound creatures
of her uncaring nature.
take a fondness to a thing, a being,
But she is as fickle as any of the gods of old.
She knows nothing of feelings. Emotions are
as pretty trinkets to her, and she carries them away with her
without the burden they bring humans.
Trite dealings of mankind - what are they to her?
She holds no interest in these matters,
weaving throughout and about these,
Monumental occasions, with a laugh,
Light as the tinkling of bells,
Felt more than heard. [more felt than heard?]
A thing of beauty, that sound, but
with a harsh edge, the cold
steel of a blade gleaming
as it is drawn from its sheath,
She is none the less beautiful for this hint at terror,
For, after all,
In all its unbridled intensity can only strike
Some nameless Fear into those, its beholders.
Lucky or luckless?
One is hard-pressed to say.
She glides swiftly at times, at others roaring
in brutal, reckless force
Across the oceans,
All untethered might, but despite this, there remains still
an undeniable femininity about her.
Those aggrieved, having fallen prey to a woman's wits, perhaps betrayed
and slighted, bitter lovers,
may sullenly tell that she consummates that female trait,
that cruel, calculated manipulation,
bending others to her will on
nothing more than a whim.
Yet such a notion being brought to her attention would receive
than a passing disdain; human thoughts and ideals,
She has reached the distant stars, skimmed the
rippling ink waves, coiffed the ash
clouds; she has danced in the shadows and the darkest of nights.
Amongst the treacherous rocks, leaping
with the salt spray,
she has leant her voice to the sirens' song,
alluring, bewitching, deadly.
She has no need of humility, no need for pride.
She does not boast - jealousy is a concept
of no bearing or use for her. She simply knows
all that she is
and embraces it.
Nothing more is necessary.
She hurtles on, breathes through each new terrain in turn,
For so has she, the night wind, done for all time,
and so she shall until its end.