Characters: The Doctor, the TARDIS and the rest of us
Word Count: 289, per Google docs
Edited by: unedited; all mistakes are my own.
Summary: The Thief's not tame, but worth it nonetheless.
Author's Notes: This was written for canaana's 2011 fandom_stocking. I am not a poet, god knows, and know only the bare minimum necessary to cobble together the most common type of sonnet. And yet it seemed best to me to talk about the rhapsody of loving Doctor Who in verse. I labored over this (which probably shows, and is no predictor of quality) but I hope it reflects at least a little of the love I hold for its multiplex subject, as well as the occasional awe in which I hold it.
Disclaimer: As much as I wish it were otherwise, no Whoniverse characters are mine. They are the sole properties of the BBC and their respective creators. I intend no copyright infringement, and take no coin. I do, however, love them all, and thank the BBC for letting me play in their sandbox.
Our lives are ruled by minutes, seconds, hours
That march, like dogged soldiers, on and on;
Or dance ahead, unstopped by any power -
A brief, bright glory; bloom, and then are gone.
Time is indifferent. Neither kind nor cruel,
But pitiless, in hard and linear rule.
Small wonder, that a blue and madmanned box
Unhooked from Time and tumbling on its tides
Should catch our hearts and drag us in Her flux;
the promise of a freedom we're denied.
A key to something we could never know
Without Her, and Her gangrel Thief in tow.
Her Pilot! Changing faces, guises, voice,
Whose pipes from Hamlin lead us who knows when
Or where? Whose magic offers us a choice
To wheel through years, to circle back again.
To watch, unscathed, as Time and Space collide
Outside Her door, safe from the temporal tide.
Of course it's dangerous. Though his smile is true,
He changes hearts who follow in his wake.
Leaves scars and tears as surely as years do,
And pain as deep as any caused by fate.
The Thief's not tame, and wild things treat us ill,
Whether or not they want to, so they will.
And yet, for all the sorrow that he brings,
We deem it payment for transcendent joy.
She's bigger on the inside, and She sings,
And loves us, like Her double-hearted boy.
Both worth the demons, and the angels, too -
The Madman and his box of bluest blue.
Out of the corner of your eye, then, seek
For everything impossible. And find
The TARDIS, as she waits upon your street,
Or in the brilliant hallways of your mind.
Time may still shackle bodies, but our souls
With Timeless grace the universe enfolds.This entry was originally posted at http://kaffyr.dreamwidth.org/215642.html?mode=reply, where there are currently comments. You can comment there or here; I watch both.