sound and sense

"You want me to write you a sonnet, if you turn around and leave us, Mumkhar?"

Mumkhar scowls, not because Dickson knows him so well but because he's being so cruelly knowing about it. How tender, the suggestion of a poetic rendering to send him off, in all his rancid treachery.

Beasts the lot of them, these three rotten soldiers, who are not immune to the calls of nostalgia about their bitter reverie.

So Mumkhar'll remember these scornful words, and write them off into his rearview cylinders, the idea that Dickson cared ever a spurning one.

Hopeful, limpid eyes.