grover oz [d9m] donezo

[cameron]

all which isn't singing is mere talking
and all talking's talking to oneself
(whether that oneself be sought or seeking
master or disciple sheep or wolf)
gush to it as deity or devil
-toss in sobs and reasons threats and smiles
name it cruel fair or blessed evil-
it is you (ne i)nobody else
drive dumb mankind dizzy with haranguing
-you are deafened every mother's son-
all is merely talk which isn't singing
and all talking's to oneself alone
but the very song of(as mountains
feel and lovers)singing is silence

- ee cummings, all which isn't singing is mere talking





grover oz.
seventeen years old.
district nine.


a musically inclined street urchin turned rebel group mascot
a boy with no family besides those he chose
a lover turned hater, a peaceful kid whose nights were filled with song and dance
a murderer



-


their eyes are wide, their foreheads bleed,
the rivers running wildly,
dear grover climbs atop his steed
no way to put it mildly:
his friends are dead, his friends are gone,
he can no longer save them,
for nothing's there, their last breaths drawn,
no more shall they cause mayhem.

he'd been the one, the voice of all
the siren with the six strings
and though those strings had been their fall,
also anointed them kings.
without his sweet sweet melodies
they'd never bloody managed
to sing the whitecoat elegies
now left him disadvantaged.

he rides away, head ringing loud
a swelling in his temple
dear grover onward, forward plowed
his voice can't help but tremble.
he cries out loud, shaky and weak
he lured the whitecoats nearer
and as they're close enough to peek
their pain becomes severer.

they died because he overshot
so now he did them justice
now he fell the whole damn lot
and oh their blood was luscious
without his sweet sweet melodies
they'd never bloody managed
to sing the whitecoat elegies
that left all disadvantaged.

[cameron]

a song of mice and wire

will it ever make sense, he asks himself
as he stares seaward bound
but he knows the truth, the answer withheld
is one he's long since found:

no sense can be made of all of this hell,
of all he's suffered through
for what could explain the violence he's seen
or violence he's committed, too?

countless lives are gone and more to be lost,
the waves continue to crash;
grover wants to feel them beat on his face
before his soul burns to ash.

he screams at the sea, he screams at the sky
he screams as the sun goes down
purple and red meet as tears fill his eyes
and in that thick salt he'll drown.

if just to go back to those brighter days
before they were called the dark,
when friends filled his eyes instead of fresh tears
before his whole life was stark -

back when he was young, when hope was alive
when he lived impoverished but rich
with friendship and love and all of the things
the whitecoats were soon to unhitch,

when he was a boy who sang to the rats
that crawled 'cross his legs at night
when he was a boy who sang to the rats
awash in the campfire light,

they'd scurried around, his friends and the mice,
together they sang his refrain
and soon he stood there looking out at sea
and grover felt nothing but pain.

he'd strung up some wires, some tight strings he'd found
and plucked away a small tune
and with some stale ale they'd all danced about
howling all the night at the moon.

that was how they spent their days and their nights
until the rebellion began
that was how they spent their days and their nights
with sharp blades and knives in hand

it first was not meant to happen like that
but once the whitecoats had come close
his friends had all taken a turn at the stab
while grover his songs did arose.

they'd killed the whole crew, lured in by his tune
and after they'd drank till they fell.
soon they did learn the simplicity
in putting 'keeps under their spell

his songs lured them in, his songs of their woes
the keepers did come to attack
but hiding in bushes and trees and burrows
they never checked their own backs

it went on for years, painting white coats red
and stealing their coins and their guns
and never grew tired did they of their deeds
it always was in such good fun

but as we all know, and grover now too,
as his tears continue to fall,
their songs may have been so full of deep joy;
endings are not happy for all.

[cameron]

a brief history of grover oz

there once was a boy who no one had claimed
no parent to call him their own
he lived out his days in squalor and haze
before escaping Oz Home

he'd snuck out one night, not much more than eight
and took to the streets of nine
he stole all his food and all of his clothes
for he was all he called mine

many months went by with grover alone
before a ragtag old band
had scooped the boy up, invited him in
and offered to give him a hand

they were the big birds, or that's what they said,
who lived in the back of a bar
the owner had known, and let them sleep there
and even left them her guitar

the bar was run down, infested with rats
the big birds did not mind one bit
grateful for the space, a room with a roof;
much better than a shallow pit

but when the war rose and fighting broke out
the owner had boarded the doors
she took to the field, to fight for freedom
and the big birds' hearts filled with sores

they'd all left too, climbed over the fence
grover followed right along
he was the youngest, and verily so
but he was cherished for his song

they lived in the woods, in blankets in trees
they lived on the ground with the rats
it wasn't until accidentally
they'd started to kill bureaucrats

but once they began they couldn't just stop;
grover led many to them
so tiny a kid, of barely just ten
seemed to the whitecoats invalid

that's why they were shocked when knives slit their throats
when blades stuck into their backs
grover was pleased to do his part
the corpses piled up into stacks

but soon word had spread of kids in the woods
who lured in the capitol troops
and soon luck ran out for all the big birds
it wasn't his death but his group's

their ambush was ambushed, their attack foreseen
and all of his friends fell face first
into the mud and into their blood
and into their own sleeping dirt

through years of fighting the capitolites
they all had collected a lot
like horses and weapons and camaraderie
that from the beginning he sought

he fled on a horse; the others were downed
their blood mixing with their riders
and grover escaped to the sea, to the sea
once more a lonely outsider

it took him a while to regain himself
and return to where he had come
the war had ended, the battles for naught
and he spent his days feeling glum

he lived in the back of the bar all alone
visiting his horse  by the woods
and one day he'd gone to visit that horse
and found himself back in childhood:

alone with no one, his horse had been shot
the same as all of his friends
grover had no one, no one, none
he blamed him for all of their ends

he stayed in the bar, stealing what he could
he bided his time and his life
grover had no one, no one, none
no one but himself and his strife

[gm bourgeois decadence [aya]]

Accepted!