The Storyteller …
An exquisite wizard, prolific and gifted
expressing natural aptitudes, many unscripted.
Where thoughts conglomerate, the mind amalgamates,
Blending parts to a whole, with topics for debate
The list of definitions, comes with aphorisms,
A short pithy saying, a bit of clever wisdom
Extinction level issues, like useless referendums
The part “The Man” plays in neglecting all the symptoms.
We reap what “The Man” lacks, an orphan in black,
Obsidian and bleak, where normal is abstract.
With humble beginnings; in ambition to listen,
Heard with intention, to figure out what was missing.
The words that were told, to get one shot at the gold,
to acquire great wealth, you must be something bold.
But behold, there it was, deprived of bankrolls,
No Finances or funds necessary to remold.
So a stroll to the attic, to look for something drastic,
to catch their attention, to show them I still had it.
I dug through that cellar, intent to be stellar,
Like the star that I was, an old school storyteller.
A midnight owl for hire, slept by the fires,
Intensely warmed by the ember’s expire, and slow to respire.
Some chronicles were happenchance, some of circumstance,
Each tale had allusions, to forecast influence.
I’d then watch our growing rapport, a thing I aspired for,
Intense correlations that I’d hope to inspire more.
But I was one man, a small focus, a paltry poet,
reserved in rhythmic prowess, one with no heroics.
Yet wisdom was there, in the weave, the web still perceived,
as the instincts decided, I’d have to make you believe,
that you would continue to breathe, sitting in disbelief,
refusing to accept me, thinking of me, a thief.
A thief of time, and your heart was pilfered from the start,
I knew in the beginning, that you valued the art.
I could tell in your eyes, no longer could you disguise,
Or conceal the truth. You love stories as much as I.
You love your fantasy, removed from reality,
Of questioning validity, or some grand wizardry
It was in your bones the gravity, a tapestry,
the woven complexities, hints of the cadency,
How a minstrel of verse, ephemeral and terse,
Brief, to the point, can keep them so immersed.
Do not fret, for there is ending, or contending,
a sunset with no sun, conclusions of your penning,
Or better yet, would you fix the text, what comes next…
Immediately following, what would you leave unchecked?
With grave circumspect, would you fix what you neglect,
with lack of attention, what future did you erect?
So I leave the legacy in your hands, the recipe,
With directions to make gold, to inspire empathy,
To equip you with weaponry, words to stir ecstasy,
To leave them in bliss, to leave them gasping so breathlessly,
To describe to them the rain, as if it caused them pain,
So much anguish, they’d sit in awe, inept to explain.
How simple the umbrella, to dissuade them from wane,
their tolerance decreasing, the tears, hard to refrain.
And the narrative will create, it will elate,
imbuing rooms with optimism and new found debate.
The hues of the yarn that you will conflate, will become ornate,
With elaborate rhetoric and detail to sate.
To sate the desires of those who participate,
those that share your story, to those who advocate,
and spread you like a good word, not something absurd,
nor inconsistent, a master of nouns, adjectives and verbs.
With aptitude to take something crude, to change how it’s viewed,
a new meaning to its perception, a spirit renewed.
You wisdom is your seller, your drive, your propeller,
your impetus for all, to discover your storyteller.