THE BALLAD OF THE STORY TELLER
(A throwback to my Form One Days...one my better pieces.)
I am the story teller
I make living through fiction
I lay bread on the table-
Through colourless, paintless art
My life lies in my pen
My existence seeps into paper
Flows from ink
Imprinted on paper
It is me
My existence lays upon brilliant white sheets
I flutter, the wind scattering
My life like dust
I fall victim to the rain
The tiny droplets of water from the clouds,
Embed themselves upon my white surface
I tear
The more that is written- the more that is lost
Ink flows unto me, it stains, it blackens
The ink has now touched me, my gleaming white surface
I lose myself in words that are being written
The ink touches my soul, I am no longer pure
The ink becomes my very lifeblood
I now belong to the stories
The stories that came from the writing of my very hand.
I am my own prisoner
The stories have trapped me
They torture me.
They plague me.
I have loved, existed and faded.
I have written.
Now I flutter and fall victim to the rain
Let me be passed on, for I have become what I sought to
be
I am the story teller
