“What was that, Dove? Yes, yes, I'll do it. Feel free to pry this off my dead body when I'm done. I *cough* don't have much time left any... ways.”
“...I'm jo-king. Don't look at me like that.”
[Skimming through the first few pages of the journal reveals drawings of foreign flowers, maps of the forest with certain areas marked with colored dots, and a very rushed portrait of a long-haired marten holding a vial. It seems the owner had been using this as a sketchbook long before deciding to write. Eventually, you are met with half a page of Martic—delicate, flowing cursive.]
My current bedridden state brings boredom, and boredom brings vile thoughts and crises that are far too unpleasant to describe, even to an audience of only myself and any scoundrels looking through my belongings (I'm watching you, [heavily crossed out]). A dear friend of mine told me of ways to avoid these crises. This is what I ultimately deemed both "most easily entertaining" and "least embarrassing to look back on when I regain my sanity". Haikus.
As of right now, with no alternatives for keeping my paws busy, I plan on filling as many pages as I can with these short poems. I was given a set of guidelines to follow—but like all rules, I deserve to break them occasionally, so do not be surprised when I do.
I will now stop rambling and get to the point. They don't need titles, but I call the first one "Popsicle".
[The poem itself is in Common. The handwriting is less elegant, but you can tell there was an effort to make it pretty despite the struggle.]
Herbs claimed by the cold
Frozen, useless for potions
Crunch! I've no complaints.
- ❀