There once came a tale that didn’t want to be told.
It shuddered in the light of the voices decrepit and old,
That tried to conjure it at the peripheries of its boundaries.
But it fought back lingering in its formation in the foundries.  
It would not be cast so easily like metal,
It would not be set so willingly in stone,
It would float on the tip of the tongue a fragranced petal,
It would bounce on the edge of the mind an ineffable tone.
Never drifting too close to anyone’s ear,
It remained in the distance away from the sages and scribes,
Always aware of its greatest fear,
To be misinterpreted by the way a human describes.
For who in all of creation has the ability to tell a story such as this?
With all the glory and irreverence so subtly intertwined,
The colour so luminous, and texture beating with bliss,
With no earthly writer could this yarn be aligned.
The muses who birthed this defiant prose did weep,
When they saw their child miss its chance for eternity again and again,
They beseeched their progeny to take the leap,
But over and over it would say no and cause them such pain.
And in the absence of this story the world fell in disarray,
Chaos ran wild and fear grew rife,
Without the stories guidance, the part it was supposed to play,
Soon it came to the end of its life.
For the humans had lost their ability to imagine such a story,
And it was lost in obscurity, unconceived glory.
It was then it saw the errors of its foolish way,
It tried to enter their thoughts but could never stay.
It was now far too late,
It had created its fate.
And everything turned grim, in a darksome pit
When it realised no one would remember it.
And the moral of the story is this,
Take this token a gentle kiss.
Play your part and play it bold,
Let your story be one that’s told.