Writing Hobbies (your prose, poetry, song lyrics, etc)

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This is a thread for posting material that you feel satisfied with and expect to never revise.

Should you occasionally need a "junkyard" or "scratchpad" to tinker around in that serves the opposite purpose, that companion topic is here. Clutter the latter up with as many do-overs and "experiments" as you want. (I've already broken it in, in terms of illustrating that messy and ignoble purpose.)

Needless to say, should probably only showcase "pseudo-juvenilia" or non-professional [intended] items. Keep your "Excelsior!" class stuff in a locked chest like Emily Dickinson or a vault as J. D. Salinger perhaps did (after his mid-40s) -- if a magazine, publisher, known musician or hip-hop artist might eventually warm to _X_ after several returns.

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Pre-emptive: And yes, Unn is a "real" name. It just sounds fantasy world setting: https://www.babynamespedia.com/meaning/Unn
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Items that are non-verse, like stories, might be a problem at times due to length. Especially when they're not as short on descriptive details as threadbare anecdotes, jokes, or a sparse yarn like a Brothers Grimm fairy tale (that's almost equivalent to a summary or mere outline). 

You can get around that by writing a "floating snapshot" which internally presents itself as part of a larger narrative. Crude, improvised example:
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The rumors circulating in the village had reached Unn's ears. It was time to leave. Approaching from the North, there was a well-armed party, of unidentified origin, searching for a curiously valued runaway.   

Taking a final glance at the Sanctuary of the Lambent Sisterhood brooding on the clifftop above, she gathered the goods given her into a rucksack.

Asking a wagoner if she could follow along, she chose what was said to be the least used passage out of the Waif Hills, to Holgoon. It was more precarious, but had fewer wayfarers to encounter that might notice and remember her. And the wrinkled man seemed to be an unperturbed veteran of the route. 

It was an old mountain cart, originally for conveying supplies shorter distances, that had apparently been converted for longer travel and perhaps even the option of passengers. Crudely fitted with wagon bows, using old quilts as makeshift covering, and large enough to accommodate at least two.

Unn had not been invited to ride inside by the unsympathetic driver, and lagged behind, trotting in spurts to keep up with the mercifully slow-moving oxen. 

Jolting and groaning at every depression and bulge afflicting the rough road, the wooden vehicle revealed itself to have an occupant that had been obscured by the stubborn darkness within the shroud of weathered quilts.

Unn heard a voice with an oddly cooing quality singing in a language she was unfamiliar with. The cryptic passenger could surely see her through the narrowed opening, but likewise ignored her presence and growing weariness.

Over the course of hours, the hilly country they had begun the trip in dwindled to a flatland. Sore, exhausted and less worried now about what might scramble down from surrounding heights and boulders, Unn decided to abandon the modest security of the noisy wagon, letting it recede as she finally rested in the middle of the road and drank water from her bundle.

Unexpectedly, the driver halted his progress, apparently due to a request from the passenger. Far enough down the road that Unn was initially unaware of the change, having accepted the increasing silence left by the fading cart. When reinvigorated enough to resume her journey South, what had been a briefly familiar, albeit indifferent or callous, acquaintance took on the character of a mysteriously looming object waiting patiently ahead.

As she drew close enough to the vehicle to again hear its dove-voiced occupant, the stranger was no longer singing blithely and disregarding her existence: "Climb in, child."

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Allegory for any effort to keep two forces, agencies, or idiots (especially young ones) apart. To prevent them from bringing ruin to themselves and collateral hardship to those around them. Usually futile in terms of working, but catering to sentimental optimism here.
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Full Moon Valentine

Down a highway barren of traffic.
Lonely stretch with no demographic.
Its crumbling pavement sprouting grass, 
Billboards wincing at their vintage past.

Troubled spaces, where dogs run in packs.
Broke trees kneeling atop railroad tracks.
Trains have not rumbled here for ages; 
Gone as convicts escaped from cages.

Enter a town pocked by street art scars,
Sunken-eyed facades, and rusted cars.
Where only death greets our monthly rite
Of passing through to a better fright.

Relic diner outside the limits. 
Abandoned farmsteads reached in minutes.
Afternoon still dominates this land,
Yet already the witch seeks his hand.

So there's the lab near where it started.
The parasitized girl still guarded.
Heartbroken thing pining on a shelf.
Immortal and cursed as he himself.

Armed keepers circle the outdoor scene.
Techs check and tweak the sentry machines.   
His buried hues leak into dry air.
The beast's passion moans deep from its lair.

How was a god interred years ago?
The last tight-lipped survivor might know.
Their alien love wills and wills
As day rests its head behind far hills.

Later, night's trauma slips its levee.
Above, our wheeling orb sags heavy.
The sullen scarecrows thrum in their field.
Forsaken, yes, but shall never yield.